In the heart of London – Surveillance at a glance…

The grey light of a London dawn barely kissed the river as Wren and Loom moved through the unassuming streets surrounding Vauxhall Cross. The behemoth of the MI6 building, a brutalist pyramid of secrets, loomed in the distance, a silent reminder of the world they operated within, yet also a stark contrast to the subtle theatre they were about to enact.

“Grid reference A-7. Café Nero on Albert Embankment,” Grit’s voice crackled softly in their earpieces, his tone clinical. “Regular morning stop for target designation ‘Basilisk.’ The profile suggests a low-level courier with high-value connections. Routine at 07:15, departs 07:40.”

Wren, already blending with the early commuters, adjusted the collar of his coat, a subtle movement that allowed him to activate the micro-sensor pod now affixed to a lamppost. He wasn’t looking at the cafe directly. His gaze was fixed on the flow of the street, the almost imperceptible changes in sound that an experienced ear could decipher. The hum of the traffic, the distinct rhythm of footsteps, the faint echo of conversation – all were data points for him. The pod, no larger than a thumb, would capture minute atmospheric shifts, sound signatures, even the faint vibrations of a passing phone.

Loom, meanwhile, was already inside the Café Nero, nursing a lukewarm latte at a table near the window. He looked exactly like a tourist, tired from an early flight, perhaps, or a freelancer starting their day. His chosen “emotional current” was one of weary disinterest, a deliberate blankness that made him forgettable. His audio disguiser, nestled in his coat pocket, was set to generate a low, irregular frequency that subtly masked his movements and the almost imperceptible click of the miniature directional microphone hidden in his travel mug. He wasn’t just listening for words; he was listening for the intent behind them, the nuances in tone that betrayed true feeling or concealed information.

At precisely 07:14, a figure emerged from a nearby side street. Tall, unassuming, dressed in a practical, unmemorable grey suit, they moved with an almost deliberate lack of flourish. This was Basilisk.

Loom felt the subtle shift in the café’s atmosphere as Basilisk ordered, a ripple of quiet deference from the barista, barely noticeable to anyone else. He tracked the target with peripheral vision, noting the way Basilisk held their coffee cup, the almost imperceptible tension in their shoulders even as they appeared relaxed. It was a practised calm, Loom noted, the kind that came from constantly being watched.

Outside, Wren received a ping from Grit. “Thermal signature confirmed. Basilisk. Proceed with passive tracking.” Wren didn’t need to see the screen. He could feel Basilisk’s presence in the subtle alteration of the ambient noise as they moved from the street into the cafe. The brief, almost imperceptible dip in the street-level chatter, followed by a slight increase in the muffled murmur from within the building. He was building a three-dimensional acoustic map of the target’s movements, each sound byte a brushstroke on his invisible canvas.

Basilisk lingered for exactly twenty-five minutes, sipping their coffee, occasionally glancing at a datapad. No obvious interactions, no clandestine exchanges. Yet, both Wren and Loom felt an underlying tension, a sense that something was being communicated in the very absence of overt action.

As Basilisk rose to leave, Loom’s gaze drifted to the street, a carefully calibrated movement that didn’t appear to be tracking the target. He noted a black cab, parked a little too perfectly down the road, its engine idling. Just a cab, perhaps, but Loom’s instinct, honed by years of reading human currents, whispered a different story.

Outside, Wren picked up a new, almost subliminal frequency—a faint, high-pitched whir, barely audible over the morning traffic. A tiny drone, no larger than a dragonfly, detached itself from beneath the taxi and began a slow, almost imperceptible ascent, melting into the grey London sky.

“Grit,” Wren murmured into his comms, his voice flat. “We have an uncatalogued asset. Airborne, low profile. Looks like Basilisk isn’t just a courier. They’re being watched, too.”

The thought hung in the air: by whom? And what did Basilisk know that made them worthy of such layered scrutiny? Phase One had just begun, and the looking glass was already showing more than they had anticipated.