A map filled the main screen—dots, routes, timestamps, the quiet record of everywhere they’d been.
“Each red mark is a signal point,” Tonio said. “Even a second of interference leaves a trace.”
She followed his explanation easily, though her chest still hummed with adrenaline. He wasn’t shielding her from this—he was bringing her in. A glance at his hand, thumb brushing a slow, imperceptible arc against her shoulder, gave her a small, grounding reassurance.
Luc’s eyes flicked toward them. “Tracker was active two days before we found it. That gives us a forty-eight-hour window. Cross-check that with garage access.”
Carlos didn’t hesitate. “The car was in the garage for forty-four of those forty-eight hours.”
The room went still.
Luc’s jaw tightened. “Then whoever planted it didn’t come from outside.” Tonio’s hand tightened subtly on her shoulder. He had reached the same conclusion, and she felt the weight of it in her chest.
Luc’s voice dropped low, controlled, deadly. “A forty-four-hour window inside my own walls.” His eyes didn’t leave the map, dissecting every route, every timestamp, as if he could peel the traitor out of the data itself.
“Access logs. Shift rotations. Everyone who touched that car—or had the chance. I want names.”
Wraith’s clicks filled the silence. “Cross-referencing footage and logs now.”
Sofia saw a different angle. “The garage,” she said softly.
Keys stopped clacking. All eyes turned. Tonio’s hand stayed firm on her shoulder.Go on.
“It’s not just a secure space,” she said, her voice steady. “People work there. They clean, grab coffee, and kill time between shifts. The logs tell you who should’ve been there—not who lingered, not who acted off days before this.”
Carlos frowned. “So we’re going off instinct?”
“I’m saying,” Sofia replied, heart thrumming under Tonio’s quiet backing, “you’re searching code for a ghost. But ghosts are people first. People leave patterns.”
Tonio’s thumb traced a slow, imperceptible arc against her shoulder—a silent nod of approval that made her chest tighten.
“Wraith,” Tonio said, final and unyielding, “pull the full forty-eight hours of footage. Not the clips. Everything.” His gaze flicked back to Sofia—sharp, assessing, impressed.
“We’re done with just the logs,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the silenced room.
“Now we hunt.”
Luc’s operationsroom was tense and silent. His chief of security had uploaded six camera angles, all feeds stitched seamlessly on the main screen. Guards, patrols, and shadows moved in a dizzying rhythm under the harsh garage lights.
For twenty minutes, they watched. Wraith controlled playback, zooming in on anyone who approached the black sedan, but everything seemed routine. A guard did a walk-around check and a sweep under the car. Nothing unusual.
“There’s no single act,” Carlos said, jaw tight with frustration. “No one even crouches near the wheel well. Either a ghost did this, or we’re looking at it the wrong way.”
Sofia stayed quiet, her journalist’s instinct picking up on the small contradictions. The real story wasn’t in the loud moments, but in the details that didn’t fit.
“We’re looking at this wrong,” she said, her voice steady, cutting through the hum. Heads turned. “You want the headline, the big act. The real story is in the subtext—who doesn’t fit their role.”
Carlos frowned. “Explain.”
“Pull every clip of anyone who even glances at that car. Not just touches it—just looks. Watch how they react. Hesitation, reverence, guilt… even resentment. That’s where the story hides.”
“Compiling,” Wraith replied.
The main screen dissolved into a grid of smaller, looping clips. A silent reel of disinterested faces scrolled past—all moving with routine efficiency. For a moment, Sofia’s eyes locked on a tall, broad-shouldered mechanic who lingered suspiciously near the sedan’s front bumper. His fingers hovered over the hood latch for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Maybe him?” Carlos muttered, leaning in.
Sofia held her breath, scrutinizing. But in the next loop, the mechanic adjusted a cover, stepped back, and moved on, completely harmless. Her pulse ticked faster—a red herring.
