|| TORONTO, ONTARIO — 04:47 || Ohel Avraham Synagogue Industrial District

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|| INTERMISSION: - The Last Noël ||

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The thing about destiny is that it doesn't care if you want it or not.

Rosen Justice stands on a rooftop three blocks from the Architects of Zion's safehouse, flamethrower strapped to her back, axe hanging from her belt, and absolutely zero backup. Her Chanel glasses reflect the pre-dawn darkness. Blood from earlier—not hers—stains her white button-up shirt.

She's grinning.

"Okay, Rosen," she whispers to herself, breath fogging in the November cold. "You do this right, you do this ALONE, you get intel, you prove you're NOT just Uncle Nick's little heir project, and maybe—MAYBE—everyone stops looking at you like you're the future and starts seeing you as just... a really good mercenary who happens to share a last name."

She checks her gear. Breaching charges. Incendiaries. Flashbangs. Her axe—freshly sharpened. These are good. These are for breaking things.

I'm good at breaking things.

She pulls out her encrypted phone, checks the clock, 04:48. No messages. She didn't tell anyone she was coming here. Not Kadence. Not the crew. Not even Uncle Nick.

Because if she told them, they'd stop her. They'd make it a TEAM mission. They'd make it about preparing her for LEADERSHIP.

Fuck leadership.

She pockets the phone and drops down the fire escape.

---

The safehouse is a converted warehouse—three stories, reinforced windows, guards rotating every twenty minutes. Zion doesn't fuck around with security. Especially not after the Two Billion Hit, or, the day they fucked up stealing the Architects cargo. The day Kadence made her first mistake.

Rosen crouches behind a dumpster, watching the patrol patterns. Two guards at the main entrance. One on the roof. Three inside, probably. Maybe four.

Easy. I've done worse.

She waits for the roof guard to turn, then moves—quick, silent, across the alley. Her boots barely make a sound. She reaches the side door, pulls out her lockpick set.

Click. Click. Click. The door opens.

Inside, the warehouse is dark. Stacks of crates line the walls. Dim emergency lighting casts everything in sickly green. The air smells like gun oil.

Voices drift from the second floor.

Rosen moves toward the stairs, keeping low, keeping quiet. Every step calculated. This is what I'm good at. Not speeches. Not strategy sessions. Not grooming for some bullshit throne I never asked for.

She reaches the second floor landing. Peers through the gap in the door.

Four men. No—five. All wearing tactical gear with Star of David patches. Architects. One of them is speaking—tall, bearded, older. Ezekiel. The leader. His voice is calm, measured, like he's discussing dinner plans instead of—

"—the device is secured in the eastern facility. We move it to the central location tomorrow night."

Rosen's grin widens.

Device. DEVICE. That's it. The WMD. Holy shit, I actually found it.

Ezekiel continues. "The Holidays won't risk entering our territory. Not after the ambush. The Two Billion Hit bought us exactly what we needed—time and an excuse to fortify."

Rosen's breath catches.

Wait. What?

Another voice—weirdly familiar. "The Two Billion Hit worked EXACTLY as planned. The Holidays are fractured. Kadence is losing control. Nicholas doesn't trust his own lieutenant anymore—"

"You've done well, Jack." Ezekiel's tone is absolute. "This city will be reshaped under God's will. A righteous order."

Rosen shifts slightly, trying to get a better angle through the gap.

Another man is standing next to him—maybe fifty, tall and slim, wearing an orange suit that's too bright for this setting. His face is fine, angular. He's grining widely. A Jack-o-lantern smile.

No. No no no no—

Jack Pumpkin. One of the three heads of the Holidays coalition. Uncle Nick's partner.

Jack's voice comes out fast. "Ezekiel, I've held up my end. The convoy ambush—I gave you the exact route, the timing, everything. The Holidays still think it was random. They don't suspect—"

"You've been useful, Jack." Ezekiel doesn't even look at him. "When we claim this city, you'll have a place in the new order. Assuming you continue to cooperate."

Jack lights up like a kid getting praised. "Yes! Yes, of course! Whatever you need! I just—I want to be part of what you're building. A better Toronto. A righteous Toronto. I've always believed—"

"Your belief is noted." Ezekiel's tone is dismissive. "Now leave. We have work to do."

Jack bows as he backs out of the room.

Rosen's hands are shaking. Not from fear. From rage.

Jack sold us out. The Two Billion Hit—the ambush that fucked everything—that was HIM. He gave us up. He gave ME up. He gave KADENCE up.

Her fingers twitch toward the axe at her belt.

I could kill him. Right now. Walk in there and split his fucking skull and—

She stops herself.

No. Intel first. Get out. Tell Kadence. Tell Uncle Nick. Prove I can do this right. Prove I'm not just—

A floorboard creaks behind her.

Rosen spins— "FUCK!"

A hand clamps over her mouth. Another pins her arms. She tries to scream, tries to fight, but there are too many—three, four men—dragging her backward into the darkness. One of them lifts a black baton.

Should've told Kadence. Should've brought backup. Should've trusted my frie—

Pitch black.

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|| TORONTO, ONTARIO — 06:23 || Kadence's Apartment Complex Penthouse Unit

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Kadence's phone rings.

She's awake—hasn't slept. Still wearing last night's clothes, sitting at her desk, staring at reconnaissance notes from Chinatown. The outburst with Rosen replays in her mind like a broken record.

The phone rings again.

Unknown number.

She answers. "Yes?"

A man's voice. Playful. Accented—Israeli. "Kadence Gottlieb-Levitsen. Dear old friend. I believe I have something that belongs to you."

Kadence's spine goes rigid. "Ezekiel. Wha—"

"We're hosting Rosen Justice. She's unharmed. For now."

The world stops.

Kadence's voice comes out cold, controlled. "If you've touched her—"

"Oh no, I haven't. Yet." Ezekiel's tone remains pleasant. "But I'm calling to inform you that as of this moment, the Architects of Zion are declaring war on the Holidays. Effective immediately."

"That's not how this works." Kadence stands, already moving toward her tactical wall. "Underground rules state that disputes are negotiated before—"

"I don't care about that anymore, darling." Ezekiel interrupts gently. "I don't care about your underground rules. Your criminal civility." Pause. "We have a weapon, Ms. Gottlieb-Levitsen. And with it, we're claiming Toronto. Not just from the Holidays—from everyone. The Red Collective. Sun Yee On. Every faction that's turned this city into Babylon."

Kadence's jaw tightens. "You're insane. The Holidays will never—"

"Then you will perish." His voice hardens slightly. "This is God's will. Toronto will be reshaped. Purified. And those who stand against us will be removed." He pauses.

Kadence's mind races—calculating, planning, searching for leverage. "Ezekiel. Listen to me. Whatever you think you have, whatever you're planning—this city has rules for a reason. Open war destroys EVERYONE. We can negotiate—"

"There's nothing to negotiate. This is a declaration, not a discussion." His tone shifts—almost kind. "You should turn on your television, Ms. Gottlieb-Levitsen. Channel Seven. Have you seen the news? They have a beautiful anchorwoman with a good last name."

The line goes dead.

Kadence stands frozen, phone still pressed to her ear.

Rosen is captured. The Architects have the weapon.

War has begun.

[WARNING: This is not an interactive episode. Please wait for the next and final chapter.]