Finn curses under his breath.Atlas’s jaw twitches like he’s trying not to grind his teeth down.
“Show me the next angle,” I say.
Santos switches to a camera positioned behind the section.We see the back of the man’s head.He leans slightly forward—intentional, not casual.
“Time stamp?”I ask.
“19:12, second period,” Santos says.
The exact moment Wren’s voice went thin in the tunnel.The exact moment Atlas’s whole body went rigid.The exact moment Finn stopped mid-joke.
“Run the exit footage,” I say.
They switch to the corridor cams.People stream out of the section at the horn.Excited.Loud.Moving together.
But the man in the dark coat?
Gone.
Not in the exit corridor.
Not in the concourse.
Not picked up on any auxiliary camera.
“Where is he?”Finn asks, tension bleeding into his voice.
“We’ve checked all major exit points,” Santos says.“He didn’t use the main, staff, or disabled assist exits.”
“That’s not possible,” Finn snaps.
“It is,” I say quietly.“If he moved before the horn.”
Santos nods.“He disappeared from the section twenty-two seconds before the period ended.”
Atlas crosses his arms, muscles ticking like a countdown.“So either he was never physically there and we caught a shadow of someone else—”
“Or he knew the blind spots,” I finish.
Both ops agents glance at each other.Leung clears her throat.“Captain, someone familiar with standard arena design could predict which cameras lag a frame under certain lighting conditions.Or knew that the concourse camera near 118 was half-obstructed by a vendor banner until we fixed it last month.”
Someone with planning.
Someone persuasive.
Someone with patience.
Someone like Adrian Frost.
I say his name silently.Never out loud.Not yet.
“Run it again,” I say.
We watch the clip four more times.My eyes burn each time the man turns toward the bench.Each time he stands still while thousands around him move.Each time he vanishes without a trace.
Finn breaks the silence.“We tell her.”
“Not yet,” I say.
