For the rest of the day, a heavy silence loomed over Beacon.

Classes were still canceled, but nobody felt like celebrating.

Not after what they had seen.

Cafeteria

The usual buzz of conversation that filled the cafeteria was absent.

Teams RWBY and JNPR sat together, but for once, their table was completely quiet.

Ruby stirred her food with her fork, but never took a bite.

Weiss sat rigid, her face pale, occasionally glancing toward a trash can as if she might throw up again.

Blake looked drained, her bow drooping as she sipped tea in complete silence.

Yang, normally the loudest, was eerily quiet, her violet eyes burning with undirected rage.

Jaune tapped his fingers against the table, his jaw clenched.

Ren kept a grounding hand on Nora's shoulder, as she gripped her cup tightly, her knuckles white.

Pyrrha, sensing the weight in the air, was the first to break the silence. "We should talk about it."

Nobody answered at first.

Then—

A chair scraped against the floor as Anthony sat down with them, looking completely normal compared to the rest.

"I've seen worse," he muttered, his voice low but loud enough in the near-silent cafeteria.

The moment the words left his mouth, all eyes turned to him.

Ruby, Weiss, Blake, Yang, Jaune, Pyrrha, Ren, and Nora stared.

Some in disbelief.

Some in shock.

Some in horror.

Anthony realized his mistake instantly.

Shit.

Thinking quickly, he exhaled through his nose, leaning back casually.

"You guys ever hear about the frontier settlements outside Vale?" he asked, keeping his voice even.

Jaune blinked. "Yeah, the smaller villages that don't have Huntsmen?"

Anthony nodded. "Yeah. My hometown? It got hit."

That got their attention.

"The bandits came first," he continued. "Then the Grimm followed. It was... bad."

The table stayed silent, listening.

Anthony leaned forward, his hands clasped together.

"You learn things in situations like that," he said. "About what people are capable of." His gaze flickered toward Weiss and Ruby, still looking sick. "That dossier? What CRDL did? That wasn't new to me."

Ruby swallowed. "But... that was evil."

"Yeah," Anthony agreed. "It was."

Jaune furrowed his brows. "What happened to your village?"

Anthony looked down at the table. "It doesn't exist anymore."

Silence.

Blake exhaled slowly, nodding. "I understand," she said quietly. "Not all people are good."

Anthony looked at her, reading between the lines.

She wasn't just talking about him.

She was talking about herself.

About the White Fang.

He nodded back. "Yeah. And not all Faunus and Humans are bad."

Blake's golden eyes met his.

For the first time that day, she didn't look as exhausted.

Anthony's cover story worked—or, at least, it worked well enough.

The team bought it, and the tension that had threatened to strangle them finally started to loosen.

Yang sighed, rubbing her temples. "Still doesn't change the fact that CRDL were pieces of shit."

"Yeah," Jaune muttered. "Glad they're gone."

Ren nodded. "They won't hurt anyone else."

Pyrrha placed a hand on Jaune's shoulder, smiling softly. "And you stood up to them."

Jaune looked at her, then at the rest of the team.

For the first time since the incident...

He felt like a leader again.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I did."

And just like that—

The dark cloud over the table finally started to lift.

The dossier's horrors were still fresh, and the wounds ran deep—

But together, they would heal.

And when the time came?

They would fight back against any future monsters.

Ozpin's Office – Late Evening

The soft ticking of the antique clock filled the room, the only sound besides the occasional clink of glass as Ozpin slowly swirled the contents of his mug.

His usual calm demeanor was intact—outwardly.

But internally?

The images from the dossier were still burned into his mind.

Across from him, Glynda Goodwitch stood stiffly, her arms crossed, her jaw clenched tight.

She had barely spoken since their return from the Vale Council building.

And Ozpin knew exactly why.

They had spent hours in a tense meeting with one of Vale's high-ranking councilmen—

Councilman Richard Winchester.

Cardin Winchester's uncle.

And the man responsible for covering up his nephew's past crimes.

"You should have let me break his damn nose," she snapped, her fingers digging into her sleeves.

Ozpin let out a slow breath. "That... would not have been productive, Glynda."

"Productive?!" She turned, slamming her riding crop against the desk. "Ozpin, he knew. He knew what his nephew was doing, and he protected him!"

"I know," Ozpin said quietly.

Glynda's eyes burned with fury.

"That man let dozens of people suffer because of his influence," she hissed. "How many of those victims were silenced? How many of those Faunus students never got justice because of him?"

Ozpin placed his mug down, his expression unreadable.

"We dealt with it," he said. "Team CRDL is gone. And Councilman Winchester? He no longer holds his seat."

Glynda took a deep breath, steadying herself.

"...That is the only reason I didn't break his nose," she admitted.

Ozpin allowed himself a small smirk. "You do have remarkable restraint."

She huffed but said nothing.

"This will have consequences," Glynda muttered after a pause. "Beacon's reputation is already under scrutiny from the Council. They'll use this as an excuse to dig deeper."

Ozpin nodded. "Let them."

That made her pause.

"You're... not worried?"

Ozpin sighed. "I am always worried, Glynda. But we must also consider the benefits."

"Benefits?" she asked incredulously.

"The White Fang's more radical factions are already spreading rumors about how we allow human supremacy to thrive within Beacon," he explained. "By removing CRDL—publicly—we have taken a step toward proving that such claims are false."

Glynda frowned. "You think this will help ease tensions?"

"Perhaps," Ozpin mused, leaning back in his chair. "Or perhaps it will further divide us. Either way, the game continues."

A ding at the elevator interrupted their discussion.

"Enter," Ozpin called.

The door opened, revealing a tall, masked figure clad in black tactical gear.

One of Beacon's intelligence contacts.

"Sir," the agent spoke in a calm, professional tone, handing a sealed folder to Ozpin. "This just came in from our underground sources. It pertains to the White Fang... and their leader."

Ozpin's expression darkened.

Glynda's brow furrowed as she stepped forward. "Adam Taurus?"

The agent hesitated.

"No, ma'am," he said. "It's about Sienna Khan."

Ozpin's grip on the folder tightened slightly.

"Thank you," he said, dismissing the agent.

The door shut behind them.

Glynda exchanged glances with Ozpin.

"Something's happening in Menagerie," she muttered.

Ozpin opened the folder, skimming the classified contents.

Then, for the first time that night, his calm mask slipped—just slightly.

And Glynda noticed.

"...Ozpin?"

He exhaled.

"It appears," he murmured, "that the White Fang... is changing."

Glynda's eyes narrowed.

"Changing how?"

Ozpin closed the folder.

"We need more information," he said.

He reached for his Scroll.

"I believe it's time we contact our... other allies."

Elsewhere – Beacon's Hidden Observers

Unknown to both Ozpin and Glynda, the dossier on Team CRDL had not originated from within Vale's intelligence agencies.

The real source?

A collaborative effort between the CIA, the FSB, and the United Nations Security Bureau.

And right now?

Those agencies were watching.

From a secure location within Vale, a team of intelligence operatives observed the unfolding events through hidden surveillance feeds.

One of them, a stoic man in an unmarked uniform, glanced toward his superior.

"Sir, Ozpin is reacting exactly as predicted," he noted. "He's making moves."

The superior, an older man with graying hair, exhaled through his nose.

"Good," he murmured. "Then let's make ours."

He turned toward a nearby screen, displaying satellite footage of Menagerie.

The White Fang's movements were shifting to their side.

And in the center of it all?

Adam Taurus.

The older man leaned forward, his gaze hard.

"It's time we send in our own players."

Unknown Location – Vale

The basement was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the overhead industrial lights, flickering slightly with each passing second. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear. The sounds of strained breathing and the occasional muffled groan echoed off the cold, concrete walls.

Four of Beacon's intelligence contacts were restrained in heavy-duty metal chairs, their arms and legs shackled in place. Their faces were bruised and bloodied, some worse than others.

Their mistake?

They had dug too deep.

And now?

The real players had come to collect their dues.

Two FSB agents—dressed in black tactical uniforms, their faces partially covered by balaclavas—stood on one side of the room. Efficient. Cold. Precise. They were the best Russia's intelligence division had to offer, and they had spent years perfecting their methods.

On the other side, three CIA agents—wearing unmarked combat fatigues—observed their counterparts. The Americans weren't as artistic as the Russians, but they knew how to break a man just as well.

"Well," one of the CIA agents, a man named Daniels, muttered as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "They lasted longer than I thought."

His colleague, a woman with short-cut blonde hair, scoffed. "Please. The moment we found them, it was over. These dumbasses probably thought they were clever, snooping around in our files."

One of the FSB agents, Mikhail Petrov, finally turned from the restrained prisoners. His cold, gray eyes flickered toward the Americans. "Enough talk," he said in a thick Russian accent. "They tell us what we want... or we send them back to Beacon in pieces."

The youngest of the captured Beacon informants, barely out of his teens, shuddered at those words.

"Y-You're making a mistake," he rasped, his voice raw from earlier questioning. "Ozpin—he'll know something happened to us. You can't just—"

A brutal backhand slap from Petrov sent him sprawling to the side, the metal chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"You still do not understand, мальчик," Petrov sneered. "Ozpin already suspects. That is why you are here."

BZZZT. BZZZT.

The tension in the room shifted instantly when a Scroll vibrated on one of the nearby tables.

The caller ID?

Ozpin.

The five agents exchanged glances, their postures immediately shifting into a state of calculated alertness.

"Shit," Daniels muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Guess the old man finally noticed his spies went missing."

The blonde CIA agent smirked. "Took him long enough."

Petrov approached the table, picking up the Scroll but not answering immediately. He turned toward the most defiant of the prisoners, a man in his late thirties with a scar over his eye.

"Does he often call his people at this hour?" Petrov asked casually.

The prisoner grunted but remained silent.

Petrov smirked. "No matter."

He clicked the answer button and brought the Scroll to his ear.

"Headmaster Ozpin," he greeted smoothly, perfectly masking his Russian accent with a Valean one. "What a surprise."

The voice on the other end was calm, but with a noticeable edge.

"I wasn't expecting you to answer, Agent Reid," Ozpin said. "I had assumed you were otherwise... preoccupied."

Petrov smiled slightly. "You know how it is. Work never stops."

There was a brief pause on the other end.

Then, Ozpin's voice lowered.

"I'd like to request a meeting," he said. "In person."

Petrov's grip on the Scroll tightened slightly.

"And why would that be?"

"Because," Ozpin answered smoothly, "I believe we have much to discuss."

Petrov ended the call, placing the Scroll back on the table.

The room was dead silent.

Daniels sighed, running a hand through his short brown hair. "Well. That was ominous as hell."

The blonde agent grinned. "You think he knows?"

Petrov exhaled through his nose. "He suspects. But he does not have proof. Not yet."

He turned to the captured Beacon informants.

"We are finished here," he stated coldly. "Dispose of them."

The youngest prisoner's eyes widened in terror. "W-Wait! Wait, please—"

A single silenced gunshot ended his plea.

The remaining three prisoners tensed, their faces draining of color.

Daniels holstered his sidearm, his expression completely neutral.

"No loose ends," he muttered.

The remaining informants began struggling violently in their restraints, desperate, panicked.

The third prisoner, the scarred man, spat blood at Petrov's feet. "You bastards... Ozpin will find out. And when he does—"

Petrov crouched beside him, gripping his jaw forcefully.

"Perhaps," the Russian mused. "But by then... it will already be too late."

He gave a nod to the other agents.

The room was soon filled with muffled screams... and gunfire.

Mission Status: Complete

✅ Four Beacon informants eliminated.
✅ Cover maintained.
✅ Ozpin suspects foul play but has no proof.
❗ CIA & FSB now monitoring Ozpin's next move.

Beacon Academy – Ozpin's Office

The early morning sun barely peeked over the horizon when Glynda Goodwitch stormed into Ozpin's office, her heeled boots clicking against the polished floor with urgency.

She didn't even wait for him to acknowledge her before she spoke.

"They're dead."

Ozpin, sitting at his desk with a fresh cup of coffee, barely lifted his gaze from the report in front of him. He had already suspected something was wrong, but hearing it confirmed brought an uncomfortable weight to his chest.

"All four of them," Glynda continued, anger barely concealed in her voice. "Found outside a settlement in the frontier of Vale. Cause of death? Bandits." She practically spat the word out. "Or at least, that's what the official reports say."

Ozpin exhaled slowly, setting his coffee cup down. "And what do you believe, Glynda?"

Glynda slammed the report onto his desk. "That this is bullshit."

Ozpin's lips barely twitched at her out-of-character curse, but he didn't argue.

She continued, pacing in front of his desk. "There were no signs of struggle, no defensive wounds, no missing gear—nothing that suggests a bandit attack. Just clean gunshot wounds, execution-style, straight to the head."

Ozpin finally leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"And their bodies were found outside a settlement?" he repeated.

"Yes," Glynda said, her eyes narrowing. "Placed there. Deliberately. As if they wanted us to find them."

Silence hung between them for a moment.

Then, Ozpin sighed.

"This was a message."

Glynda's jaw clenched. "And what message would that be?"

"That we are being watched," Ozpin murmured, his expression unreadable.

Glynda exhaled sharply, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "We need to act, Ozpin. We can't just let this go. Someone killed our people and then framed it on common bandits. If we don't respond, we risk looking weak."

Ozpin looked past her, his gaze settling on the large window overlooking Beacon's courtyard.

The students were out there, laughing, training, completely unaware of the shadows lurking just beyond their reach.

A part of him envied their ignorance.

"Tell me, Glynda," he said quietly. "If we pursue this... and we discover that these deaths were not just assassinations, but part of something larger... what do you suppose we do?"

Glynda frowned, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"

Ozpin turned back to her.

"I mean, what if we find out that this wasn't the work of common mercenaries or rogue operatives?" His fingers tapped against the desk rhythmically. "What if this goes beyond Vale? Beyond Beacon?"

Glynda hesitated, her arms crossing. "Then we expose them. We fight back."

Ozpin smiled faintly. "And what if we can't?"

Glynda's frown deepened. "We can. We have to. If there's something bigger going on, then—"

"Then we have to play the game carefully," Ozpin interrupted, his voice firm.

Glynda paused, studying his expression.

He wasn't just considering the possibility of a conspiracy.

He knew.

"Just how much do you already know?" she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.

Ozpin closed his eyes briefly before answering.

"Enough to know that we are being outmaneuvered."

Glynda's fists clenched at her sides. "Then we get ahead of them. We counter whatever they're planning."

Ozpin sighed, standing up from his chair and walking toward the window.

"I will arrange for a closed investigation," he said. "No official reports. No council involvement."

Glynda nodded. "I'll handle it."

Ozpin, still staring out the window, tightened his grip behind his back.

He had a sinking feeling.

This was just the beginning.

And the enemy?

They were already three steps ahead.

Mission Status: Intelligence Cover-Up Successful

✅ Beacon's informants officially declared victims of a bandit attack.
✅ Ozpin & Glynda suspect foul play but lack solid evidence.
❗ CIA & FSB continue monitoring Ozpin's next moves.
❗ Beacon has launched an unofficial investigation.
❗ The hidden war escalates.

Glynda's Office

Glynda exhaled sharply as she stepped into her office, shutting the door behind her. The weight of the past few days pressed against her mind, and for the first time in what felt like hours, she allowed herself a moment to breathe.

She walked toward her desk, reaching for a fresh cup of tea, hoping it would ease the growing tension in her shoulders.

That's when she felt it.

A sudden, sharp sting against the side of her neck.

Her fingers instinctively shot up, grasping at the small, metallic dart now embedded in her skin.

Her vision blurred. Her limbs locked up. Her breath hitched.

Poison? No... a sedative... a paralytic.

She collapsed into her chair, her body suddenly useless, her muscles refusing to respond.

Her mind, however, remained painfully alert.

She could move her eyes, barely, and think, but the rest of her body was completely shut down.

That's when she saw them.

A figure in all-black tactical gear, their uniform blending seamlessly into the shadows of her dimly lit office. A full-face mask covered any identifying features, and even their hands were gloved—no skin, no hair, nothing exposed.

Author's Note: The guy is MI6 don't start a riot.

The only thing that broke the eerie silence was the mechanical buzz of a voice modulator.

"You've been looking into things you shouldn't, Professor Goodwitch."

Glynda's heartbeat slammed in her chest.

The agent took slow, deliberate steps around her desk, standing just close enough for her to see the glint of highly advanced equipment attached to their gear.

"I won't waste time. This is your first and only warning."

They placed a small data pad on her desk, pressing a single button.

Images flickered to life—photographs, dozens of them.

Glynda's stomach dropped.

The homes of Beacon's professors. The addresses of their family members. Detailed surveillance shots of their parents, their siblings, their loved ones—all taken from a disturbingly close distance.

Her own parents' home was displayed last.

The MI6 operative tilted their head slightly, watching her reaction.

"If you go any deeper... if you keep pushing where you don't belong... I will not come after you."

They leaned forward slightly, making sure she could see the cold, mechanical precision in their posture.

"I will come after them."

Glynda's pupils contracted, her breathing shallow, but she could do nothing.

The figure straightened and lifted a gloved hand, placing it lightly against the side of her head as if to mockingly comfort her.

"You will regain control of your body in one hour."

They turned and made their way toward the door, moving effortlessly through the room like a shadow given form.

Just before leaving, they paused.

"Stay out of unknown waters, Professor Goodwitch."

With that, the door clicked shut, leaving Glynda completely paralyzed in her chair, her mind racing, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to fight.

But all she could do...

Was wait.

Mission Status: A Line in the Sand

✅ MI6 delivers a clear warning to Beacon's leadership.
✅ Glynda Goodwitch temporarily paralyzed and unable to act.
❗ Beacon's inner circle is now aware they are being monitored.
❗ The stakes have been raised—Beacon's staff and their families are now potential hostages.
❗ Ozpin remains unaware of Glynda's encounter... for now.

The hour passed like a slow, torturous eternity.

Glynda's fingers twitched first, then her arms, then her legs. Her breathing shallowed, her body drenched in cold sweat.

Then—the dam broke.

She lunged forward, gasping for air like a drowning woman breaking the surface. Her eyes were wild, darting across the dimly lit office, her body shaking violently.

Her stomach twisted, a sickening churn rising in her gut. She barely had time to pull the trash can toward her before she vomited—the acrid taste of bile burning her throat.

She spat, coughed, and wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand.

The paralysis was gone... but something else had settled inside her.

Pure, unrelenting fear.

Her hand instinctively reached for her Scroll, her mind racing. "Warn Ozpin. Warn the staff. We need to shut everything down—"

She froze.

The images flashed in her mind again.

Her parents' home.

The addresses of Beacon's professors.

The threat, cold and absolute: "I will not come after you... I will come after them."

Her hands shook violently over the Scroll.

She hesitated.

For the first time in her life—she hesitated.

And then... she lowered the Scroll.

Her chest rose and fell in erratic breaths. Her glasses felt heavy on her face. Too heavy. She slowly removed them, setting them on the desk.

And then—

She broke.

Silent tears spilled down her cheeks, falling onto her lap, her body curled inward as the sheer weight of everything crushed her.

For years, she had been Beacon's wall of strength. A disciplinarian. A protector. A force of unyielding control.

But now?

Now, she felt helpless.

She had faced Grimm. Criminals. Rogue Huntsmen.

But nothing—nothing—had ever made her feel powerless like this.

A soft knock at the door made her flinch.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide and red-rimmed.

The door creaked open slightly, and Jason stepped inside.

His expression immediately shifted.

"Professor Goodwitch?" His voice was genuine, not his usual teasing or casual tone. His brows furrowed, his eyes scanning her tear-streaked face. "What's wrong?"

His words were simple, but something about them made Glynda's throat tighten even more.

She opened her mouth—nothing came out.

She turned her face away, wiping her eyes quickly with her sleeve, trying to compose herself. Trying to become Beacon's strong professor again.

Jason, however, didn't move.

He stepped closer, slowly, careful not to startle her.

"You're shaking," he noted, voice low and steady. "And you look like you just saw a ghost."

Glynda swallowed, but her throat felt dry as dust.

"It's... nothing." Her voice cracked.

Jason didn't buy it for a second.

He pulled up a chair, sitting across from her, but not too close. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You're a lot of things, Goodwitch," Jason said, tilting his head. "But a bad liar isn't one of them."

She tensed.

He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't pressuring her.

He was waiting.

Letting her decide if she wanted to speak.

For several long seconds, the only sound in the office was Glynda's uneven breathing.

Her lips parted, her mind screaming at her to stay silent.

She couldn't tell him.

She shouldn't tell him.

But then—

Her walls crumbled.

Her voice barely above a whisper, she muttered: "I think I just signed my own death sentence."

Jason's eyes darkened.

And suddenly, she wasn't alone anymore.

Mission Status: A Mind on the Edge

✅ Glynda chooses not to warn Ozpin or the staff—for now.
✅ Jason discovers Glynda's distress and intervenes.
❗ Glynda's mental stability is now at critical levels.
❗ Jason suspects something very wrong is happening behind the scenes.
❗ The MI6 agent's warning still lingers—unspoken, but ever-present.

And somewhere, in the shadows of Vale, a silent predator watches.