In the London clock tower, hidden behind the fa?ade of ancient cogs and machinery that tourists flocked to photograph, twelve figures gathered around an oval table of polished obsidian. While the exterior maintained its historic charm for public consumption, the interior chamber represented the pinnacle of modern luxury and technology, a stark contrast that perfectly encapsulated the organization itself. Traditional in its foundations, ruthlessly modern in its methods.

  The Enlightened Ones, or as the conspiracy theorists called them, the Illuminati, conducted their quarterly assessment with the efficiency of people for whom time was the most precious commodity on Earth. They and their families would never want for financial resources or suffer the constraints of laws meant for common people. They had evolved beyond such concerns into a rarefied world of pure power politics and economic manipulation.

  Sophronia Elizabeth Rothenberg, or Sophie, sat at the head of the table, her platinum hair pulled back in an elegant chignon that emphasized her sharp cheekbones and penetrating gray eyes. Her Valentino suit in midnight blue spoke of wealth without ostentation, power without vulgarity. At thirty-nine, she carried herself with the gravitas of someone who had shaped nations while remaining invisible to history books.

  The Regional Director for North America adjusted her silver-rimmed glasses as she scanned the financial reports displayed on the tablet before her, a habit she had developed when focusing intently. The quarterly numbers were impeccable as always; all markets controlled, governments influenced and resources allocated according to their Grand Design.

  “That’s the last of the financials,” she announced, her crisp British accent carrying authority without effort. “On to predictive wealth patterns. Decklan, your report.”

  Decklan Reese, her operations specialist and the closest thing Sophronia had to a confidant within the organization, cleared his throat. A former intelligence operative who’d proven too valuable to remain in government service, he now coordinated their most sensitive operations across the western hemisphere.

  “Sophie, we’ve got a few odd behaviors coming from the southeastern United States area,” he began, professional but clearly troubled. “It’s hidden on a surface level, but our algorithms have detected an incredible amount of wealth being gathered within a small portion of time. I’d say at the current rate, the individual stands to be on par with the U.S. military budget by the end of the year.”

  Sophronia unconsciously rubbed the thin scar near her left wrist, the only visible reminder of her father’s brutal lessons in power dynamics. Something about this situation was triggering memories of Elias Rothenberg, whose methods had been legendary even among the Twelve Heads. Her father had taught her to recognize patterns that defied normal explanation, and this had all the markers.

  “The patterns were first flagged by Thorne’s analysis team,” Decklan continued. “He says the probability calculations don’t make sense; the success rate defies all statistical models.”

  Across the table, Dr. Samira Al-Fahim, the elegant Egyptian woman who directed their Technological Division, leaned forward. “Is there any indication of what information sources this individual might be using? New predictive technologies we should be tracking?”

  “Nothing concrete yet,” Decklan replied. “Just extraordinary market timing and investment choices that shouldn’t be possible with publicly available information.”

  Victor Zhao, their Financial Director, scoffed. The Hong Kong native had built and destroyed fortunes before joining the Enlightened Ones, and skepticism was his default position. “Perhaps just an unusually lucky amateur investor. We’ve seen these statistical anomalies before.”

  “Whose turn is it?” Sophronia asked, redirecting the conversation with practiced efficiency.

  “It’s the U.S., so that’s Jonathan’s territory, isn’t it,” remarked Jacques Renault, the French Regional Director, his accent thickening with obvious distaste. The rivalry between European and American interests within the organization was centuries old, predating even the American Revolution.

  “Of course, you’d shirk responsibility, eh Jack?” Jonathan Mercer replied with a smirk, adjusting his Italian suit as he leaned back in his chair. At thirty-five, he was the youngest Regional Director, his rapid ascension a testament to both his capabilities and his ruthless ambition.

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  Sophronia observed the exchange with veiled irritation. Jonathan had potential, but his constant need for posturing exhausted her patience. More concerning was his growing tendency to act without proper authorization; a trait her father would have eliminated immediately.

  “My name, enfoiré, is Jacques. Keep your ignorant American dialect to yourself!” the Frenchman snapped.

  “My apologies, of course, my dear patriot,” Jonathan replied with exaggerated deference, his eyes briefly flicking to Sophronia. The glance contained a hunger that went beyond professional ambition, a desire she had noticed and deliberately ignored for years.

  “It seems to be an individual named Alexander Evans,” Jonathan continued, recovering his professional demeanor. “Nothing out of the ordinary until a couple of weeks ago. He bought and sold precise stocks that seemed almost prophetic in nature.” He paused for effect. “I hate to say this, but his information seems to rival that of some of us.”

  At the name “Alexander Evans,” Malcolm Sinclair, the eldest member of the Council and Keeper of Records, stirred from his apparent disinterest. The ancient historian’s encyclopedic knowledge of their organization’s past made him their living archive.

  “Evans,” Sinclair murmured, his accent thickening with thought. “Why does that name sound familiar? I’ll need to consult the Historical Archive.”

  Sophronia nodded slightly, making a mental note to follow up with Sinclair later. If there were historical precedents, they could be valuable in assessing the current situation.

  “Find out if we can make use of him,” she directed, her tone leaving no room for debate. “If not, take everything he owns. I don’t care which.”

  Her directive was precise and cold, yet something about this situation nagged at her. The predictive patterns described by Thorne’s analysts reminded her of records she’d studied in the Archive; accounts of individuals throughout history who had demonstrated unusual foresight or abilities. The official Illuminati history dismissed most as coincidence or exaggeration, but certain cases remained unexplained.

  “That’s enough for now,” she concluded. “Report back in a month’s time with your update on the situation. Let me make this crystal clear: I don’t like unknowns, understand?”

  “Mum!” the Council members acknowledged in unison before disconnecting their feeds.

  As the holographic projections faded, leaving Sophronia alone in the London chamber, she remained seated, contemplating. Jonathan’s feed was the last to disconnect, lingering just long enough for her to notice his hesitation, a small but telling detail.

  “Decklan, stay a moment,” she said, stopping her operations director before he could exit.

  Once they were alone, she activated additional privacy protocols. The soft hum of electromagnetic scramblers filled the room, ensuring absolute confidentiality.

  “Your honest assessment,” she requested, removing her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. “This Evans situation; threat level?”

  Decklan considered carefully. “Difficult to classify. The financial movements alone wouldn’t warrant special attention, but combined with Thorne’s probability analysis...” He trailed off, uncharacteristically uncertain.

  “And Jonathan’s handling of it?” she pressed.

  “Potentially problematic.” Decklan chose his words with precision. “He’s deployed surveillance assets without full Council authorization.”

  Sophronia nodded, unsurprised. “Keep a secondary team monitoring his team. I want unfiltered data.”

  “Consider it done.” Decklan hesitated. “I should also mention that Thorne’s team has requested additional surveillance parameters beyond financial monitoring. They believe there might be more to Evans than just market acumen.”

  This captured Sophronia’s full attention. Thorne rarely requested expanded operations without solid reasons. “Granted, but with maximum discretion. If Evans is as perceptive as his financial moves suggest, standard surveillance might be detected.”

  After Decklan departed, Sophronia stood at the window overlooking London, the city lights spread below like a mirror of the stars above. She found herself thinking of her father’s teachings on power and perception. Elias Rothenberg had been ruthless in his methods, but effective in his understanding of patterns.

  “There are forces beyond our current scientific understanding,” he had told her once, showing her ancient texts from the Archive. “Our ancestors called them gods or demons. Modern man calls them unexplained phenomena and superstition. But names are irrelevant; what matters is recognizing them when they appear and finding a way to capitalize on their arrival.”

  She touched the scar on her wrist reflexively, then caught herself. Sentiment was weak, and weakness was unacceptable in her position.

  Sophronia returned to her desk and accessed a secure terminal, bypassing the standard Council protocols to enter a private query into the Historical Archive database. The search parameters were specific: unusual financial success + predictive capacity + energy anomalies.

  The system processed for several moments before returning a single result, a reference to a case from May 31st 1921. The details were sparse, but one line stood out: “Subject exhibited uncanny foresight in financial matters before manifesting more explicit anomalous capabilities. Surveillance terminated upon subject’s apparent perception of monitoring efforts.”

  She closed the file and initiated a new protocol: direct surveillance of Alexander Evans under her personal authority. If Jonathan Mercer’s team produced results, so much the better. But she hadn’t risen to her position by delegating matters of true importance.

  “Let’s see what makes you special.”