No human moves like that.
I stand from my desk slowly, hands clasped behind my back, eyes on the live feed scrolling across the wall.
“Replay Markovic’s last six hours,” I say calmly.
The technician complies at once.
I watch it again—traffic cams, reflections in glass, timestamps, geolocation pings. Ilya appears invisible. Unremarkable. Exactly where he should be.
That is the problem.
“He’s being handled,” I say quietly.
The room stiffens.
“He hasn’t tripped any alarms,” one analyst ventures. “No unauthorized access detected.”
I turn my head slightly.
“He doesn’t need to,” I reply. “They aren’t hunting him.”
Confusion flickers.
“They’reusinghim.”
Silence falls.
Ilya was never meant to be seen. His value lies in remaining unnoticed. The moment someone identifies him and does not remove him, it means they want him to keep moving.
I step closer to the screen, zooming in on a still frame—Lena Hart exiting a bookstore, head lowered, hair loose, posture relaxed.
Alive.
Unshaken.
Aware.
A slow, unpleasant realization settles into my gut.
“She knows,” I murmur.
One of the analysts swallows. “Sir?”
“Lena Hart,” I continue. “She identified him.”
“And chose not to react,” another adds quietly.
“Yes,” I say. “Because she wanted to see who he reported to.”
My lips curve—not in a smile.
In recognition.
“Cut Markovic loose,” I order.
The technician freezes. “Sir, if we pull him—”
“He’s already lost,” I snap softly. “And he’s about to cost us more if we let him believe he still has value.”
