Thirteen woke up to someone shaking his shoulder. His eyes wrenched open, light filtering past his lids. He straightened and regarded his surroundings. They were a long way from Geneva, that much was obvious. Kevan had the driver park the truck among the numerous cars lined up in the wide space. A rusty metal fence shielded most of Thirteen's view of the world outside, save for hints of trees and road signs.

With sleep still heavy in his system, he climbed out of the cargo bed through the front panel someone lowered. A bundle of clothes slapped him in the chest. He looked up to find Ji-yeon shoving them with a scowl on her face. "Change," she said. "You stink."

Which said a lot about how bad it was. Thirteen swallowed what was left of his dignity and unfurled the bundle. Olive green trousers torn at the knees, and a white shirt printed with a swirly logo he'd never identify. He climbed back into the truck, shedding his clothes like second skin.

When he got back out, the trousers were sizes bigger and longer, so much that he held it by the waist to avoid it falling to his ankles. The shirt could have clothed an entire village, hanging from his frame as if he was a coat hanger.

"Hey, I talked to Mr. Conway on the road, and he'll be ready to meet us by 10." Jocasta handed him the phone, even though he had no memory of handing it to her prior to waking up. Did she fish it out of his clothes when he fell asleep during the journey? Driving for hours was surely draining. "We have at most three hours to scour the city to find his apartment."

Thirteen opened his mouth to react, but she beat him to it with a snort. "Hold on," she said, running a hand down her hair. With a quick slash of a blade, she fashioned a belt out of the strands. Or, at least, it resembled a belt. She held out the finished product—a white strap of cloth without buckles or anything to fasten it—with a smile. "Here."

Every drop of a fight drained from Thirteen's limbs. He snatched the belt, flashing Jocasta with a quick smile. It took all of his dexterity to loop the cloth through the loops towards the front. He secured it with a double knot. From here, he'd only hope for the best.

He retrieved the phone from Jocasta and scrolled through the "mail thread", as most people called it. Declan Conway and Jocasta talked through the entire night, stopping only around 3 in the morning and picking up around 5. He glanced at the top bar. 7. At most three hours, if they were to make it to Rio Terà dei Pensieri on time.

"Thanks," Thirteen replied, watching the others flit away from the rickety truck and into the neighboring cars. Unlike in the Genevan countryside, finding an unlocked car was next to impossible. "How long was I out?"

Jocasta chewed on her lip. "A little over twelve hours," she said. "We didn't wake you when we pulled over to let the driver rest. Somewhere in Milan."

The city name flew by Thirteen's head as usual. All that mattered was they were closer to Declan Conway now compared to yesterday. "Well, shall we?" He tilted his head towards Ji-yeon who corralled the others past the metal fence when they found a section that swung out. "Let's get this done."

" 'Over with'," Jocasta corrected, following him out of the fence. Out in the unbounded place, he searched for the quickest way to Declan Conway's apartment. It was a twelve-minute walk. Great.

Thirteen sniffed and stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of the trousers. "Where did you get these?" He lifted a leg from the ground to refer to his fit. "I could have used something smaller."

Jocasta shrugged. "We got it from the glovebox. The driver had several pairs, so we helped ourselves."

They crossed a road and came across a wide intersection. People streamed in and out of Thirteen's periphery, but he kept his gaze pinned at Kevan's back. "How many people have we met since getting out of the Game?" he wondered aloud. "We would be doomed if they ever caught up."

A chuckle rang behind him. "They won't."

Thirteen had every right to hope that was true.

Soon, they departed the busy walkways and walked beside the canals. Thirteen edged closer to the walls of the brick buildings, not daring to take even a peek. Having looked at the satellite images of their route from Geneva to Milan, he was glad he was knocked out. He wouldn't have handled the view of the open water well. If he fell over and sank to the floor...

He blew a breath and mussed his hair. The curls stung his eyes. No one would push him over, even as a joke. They didn't have much time, anyway. If Declan Conway agreed to meet by 10, he'd have to move things around to accommodate them. They crossed several bridges, arcing over the rippling water. Boats waddled by, bearing either tourists or their drivers on their backs.

A sigh of relief ripped out of his lips when they touched down stable ground once more. The gray-green pavement bled out into a street flanked with residential buildings and shops. Outdoor tables lined the patio of some, shielded from the early morning light by droopy umbrellas. The wind passed by, ruffling tablecloths and apparels hanging from clothesline drying in several balconies. It carried a whiff of salt and moss, making Thirteen scrunch his nose.

The navigation pointed them into a wide street filled with booths and patches of vegetation. The number...

"Is this it?" Alon stopped in front of a white-washed facade and craned his neck up, shielding his face with his hand. The sun cast geometric shadows over the pavement. "It looks...bland."

"Let's just go." Jocasta pushed past all of them and strode into the door hidden in the alley between buildings. They tramped in her wake, watching with bated breath as she rapped her knuckles on the splintering wood. "Mi scusi?" She called. Did she hit up the translator in the phone while he slept as well?

For a second, nothing happened. Then, scratching footsteps echoed from the heart of the foyer. The rusty knocker clambered against the green door when the door swung inward. "SÌ?" a woman with fly-away fringe and bobbed, pale blond hair answered, sticking half of her body out. She was dressed in a stitched cardigan and floral dress combined with black pants. Rubber slippers covered her feet, and she fumbled for the red-rimmed glasses propped on her head. "Posso aiutarla?"

Thirteen waved his hand in the air. "No...Italian," he said in English. "Uh, Declan Conway?"

The woman's eyes lit up. "Oh! Guests?"

Jocasta popped up. "SÌ! Guests. Declan Conway," she said, snapping her fingers. "Is he inside?"

The woman, who must have been the one operating the apartment or a caretaker, ushered them in. She led them past the ornate foyer, lit by amber bulbs sticking out of the ceiling. "Sit," she commanded, gesturing towards the set of lounge chairs in the lobby. "I call him."

They watched her scamper off to a room only to come back out a few seconds later. She smiled at them. "He is coming," she said. "Wait."

The last word hasn't even left her mouth when a series of footsteps thumped down the padded stairs. Everyone looked up at a disheveled man still in a striped bathrobe hurrying through the steps. A toothbrush stuck out of his lips, foam tinting his beard. His bright blond hair sat in wet clumps over his head, and...oh, he only wore a pair of black shorts and pink bunny slippers.

"My God, I thought we agreed by 10." The man shoved his fingers into his hair, turning it into a greater disaster. "Just give me a few minutes. I'll change into something more presentable."

Thirteen wouldn't care if he showed up naked. They didn't come here for his body. It was what sat inside his mind. "Please," he said aloud, nodding at the man. "We don't mind a few."

The man flashed him an easy smile and dashed back up. As promised, a man in a decent button-down shirt tucked into warm brown slacks sauntered down the stairs not long after. Gone were the bunny slippers, replaced instead by boring, black loafers. He sank into the unoccupied chaise and dropped a plastic yellow binder. "Here's everything I know about Jacqueline Shaw back when I was assigned to her," he said. "Some of those didn't make it to the final edits of my articles, but if it's for your task, I suppose it will do."

Thirteen swiped the binder and flipped it open. Blurred pictures of a woman with straight blond hair and generic features settled behind a plastic pouch and greeted him. "Are these taken by you?" he asked.

"Some are from close contacts, anonymous sources, select members of the paparazzi." Declan shrugged. "I have a lot of connections."

"Hmm," was Thirteen's only reply, skimming through the scrawled, typewritten, or photographed notes some plastic pages showed him. Jacqueline Shaw was a daughter of the billionaire philanthropist and an ex-supermodel. She disappeared from public view since the beginning of Spring that specific year, only to return a few months after. Declan had noted that Jacqueline seemed a bit "off" or "strange" to her peers, with one even claiming Jacqueline had suddenly changed personalities and acted as if she didn't remember her previous friends.

"This strange case of disappearing and coming back as a new person," Thirteen propped, looking up from the binder. "Did it recur?"

The journalist nodded. Sitting on the lounge with his hair hastily combed flat on his forehead and his tie knotted clumsily, he didn't resemble the sharp picture posted of him in every article there was. "At least three times," Declan answered. "The several sightings after the longest disappearance can't be ruled out either, as they could be connected to what happened to her from the beginning. I have reason to believe those were her, leading different lives and meeting various people."

Just like them, maybe she was on the run too. But from what? Thirteen cleared his throat. "What do you know about Primeva?" he asked. "And did Jacqueline or her father have something to do with it?"

Declan's fists curled inward atop his knees. His back turned rigid, as if Thirteen's question hit a nerve he didn't know he had exposed. "It's not confirmed, and my superiors back at ANM told me to never make such wild assumptions, but some clues point to Jacques being affiliated with Primeva. Either as a major shareholder...or the owner."

Thirteen's eyebrows raised. That made sense. Jacqueline's affiliation with Primeva and all those corporations under her father's name weren't because she worked there. It was because of her relationship with the man. "Is Primeva's owner still confidential until now?" Thirteen asked.

Declan's eyes flitted to the window overlooking the street. Was he waiting for something? "They're known only by a title. I'm sure you heard of it—The Corrector," he said. "Other than that, the conglomerate insists on confidentiality. It's almost impossible to get them to budge on anything, but they seemed committed to acting on any stream of information that they didn't approve of."

"Are they aware of this talk?" Thirteen followed Declan's gaze out the window. Apart from the people streaming across the street, not a single thing looked out of place. "Is that why you're hesitant?"

Declan pursed his lips. "I've been on the run since publishing my last article with ANM," he said. "They refused to help me when Primeva went after me, so now, I joined a different company and mainly write about travel destinations."

"Is that why you are in Venice?" Thirteen said. "Fair."

"Is that all?" Declan asked.

Thirteen set the binder down and crossed his legs at the knee. "Are the recent sightings still ongoing?" he said. "What was your latest news?"

Declan looked to the vase of pink lilies to his right. "After Vienna or Sydney, she was spotted near her father's estate," he replied. "Paris. France."

Jocasta scoffed. "And we just traveled from Geneva. We have to go back."

"And we need money," Alon interjected. "I doubt we have enough euros for the six of us."

Declan put a finger up. "If you're going to Paris, it's quicker to go by plane," he said. "Hold on. I'll fetch something."

They watched as the journalist disappeared back to his room and came back with a leather sleeve. "Head to a tarmac at this address in Milan," Declan said, scrawling quick lines across a torn piece of paper. "Look for a plane with green and blue stripes. My buddy owes me a solid. He'd help you. You only need to pay for fuel."

Thirteen accepted the sleeve. Why was this man, whom they barely knew, helping them as if it was his life mission to?

Declan snorted, reading the sentiment in Thirteen's face. "Lighten up, you," he said. "I know what it feels to be on the run. You don't look like you have connections, but as long as you stick together, you'd be fine."

"Thanks for your help and more." Thirteen ducked his head at the journalist and stood up.

He was halfway towards the door when Declan piped up. "May I ask why the interest in Primeva?"

Thirteen looked over his shoulder. "I aim to bring it down," he said.

Before the journalist could say anything, he strode towards the door and yanked it open. Then, a blast of blue and electricity rushed towards him.