The intel came from a disgraced former Pea-Cracked chef. The Baron, for all his digital genius, had one analog obsession: the perfect pea. Specifically, a single, unblemished Petit Pois à la Française from a specific 0.3-hectare plot in Brittany. He ate it as the final, palate-cleansing morsel of every meal. He called it "the dot at the end of the world."

The Baron, irritated, popped the pea into his mouth. He chewed once. Twice. His eyes went wide. Not with pleasure. With the sudden, unassailable knowledge that his throat was closing.

The Baron lifted the spoon. The room held its breath. He brought it to his lips.

And he was deathly allergic to iodine.

The Baron was launching his new service tonight: Pea-Cracked Immersive . A neural wafer. No screen needed. The entertainment would be injected directly into the visual cortex. 47’s mission was to ensure the launch never happened.

But the Baron was not a fool. He paused. His eyes, two wet chips of gray ice, scanned the room. They landed on 47.

"You," the Baron whispered, not loudly, but with the certainty of a predator. "You have the stillness of a man who has killed before. Chef? Remove this man."