Susanna snorts."Famous last words."
Maybe so.But as I help my sisters rebuild our fort (with better engineering this time), I can't help feeling that something fundamental has shifted.
For the first time in forever, the path ahead isn't clear, isn't safe, isn't entirely under my control.
And strangest of all?I'm not sure I want it to be.
8
MIDNIGHT STRATEGY
CALLUM
Midnight in Seattle has its own rhythm.
It’s in the hushed whisper of late summer rain on windows, the distant hum of cargo ships in the Puget Sound, and the sound of Karina Peters muttering creative profanities at her computer screen.
"Did you just curse in Armenian?"I ask, blinking away the screen fatigue that comes from six straight hours of code analysis.
"Family tradition," she replies without looking up."The truly creative curses are only passed down through generations of frustrated women."
It's Monday night—technically Tuesday morning now—three days since our meeting with her sister Viktoria.
The July heat has finally broken, leaving behind a gentler warmth that makes the office almost comfortable at this ungodly hour.
We've commandeered the conference room, spreading our work across the massive table like generals planning a campaign.
Which, in a way, we are.
Viktoria's analysis had confirmed our suspicions: two distinct digital fingerprints in the viral posts.
The first—innocuous, playful content with the #KiltedCEO hashtag—appears to be the work of an amateur with basic marketing skills.
The second…The explicitly suggestive #KiltedCasanova material contains sophisticated code buried in the metadata.
Code that bears striking similarities to previous MacTavish Global security operations.
"There's our smoking gun," Viktoria had declared."But it's circumstantial.You need more to prove Duncan's involvement."
So here we are, bleary-eyed and caffeine-fueled, hunting for that crucial piece of evidence.
I stretch, feeling my spine protest after hours of hunched focus.
Across the table, Karina looks equally exhausted, her dark curls escaping their professional updo to frame her face in a way that's distractingly appealing.
Not that I'm noticing.
"We should eat," I say, reaching for my phone."Humans require food, apparently."
"Alleged nutritional necessity," she agrees, rubbing her eyes."I'll eat anything that isn't actively trying to escape the plate."
I hesitate, finger hovering over my usual Italian delivery app.
La Famiglia—Mac Gallo's family restaurant—has been my default takeout choice since returning to Seattle.Their linguini with clam sauce has sustained me through countless late nights.
But something makes me pause.
A memory surfaces of Karina mentioning a favorite restaurant during one of our strategy sessions.
