It’s been a long time since anyone wrote about monsters like they might still be human. Like they weren’t myths or symbols, but men shaped by failure and necessity. Like the line between justice and sin wasn’t clean, but intentional.
Clara catches me still reading when she walks back into my office. She arches a brow, unimpressed.
“You planning to send a cease-and-desist,” she asks dryly, “or a thank-you note?”
“If I knew where to send it,” I say without looking up.
“Well, you’re in luck, because I have a name for you.”
That gets my attention.
My chair creaks as I lean back, then forward again, slow and deliberate. I lift my head and really look at her. Clara doesn’t bluff—not with me. And she doesn’t exaggerate. I’ve had my best people buried in this for days, tearing through firewalls and dead ends, and they came up empty-handed. There is no version of this where shecasuallyhas the answer.
Unless she does.
“You can thank me later,” she adds, already reaching for a pen.
She scribbles quickly on a Post-it, her handwriting neat, controlled. When she’s done, she sets the pen aside with maddening calm and slides the pad across the desk toward me—then stops it with one finger, pressing down hard enough to wrinkle the paper.
Her gaze lifts to mine. The humor drains from her face.
“Before I give you this,” her voice is steady, “I want your promise that you’ll give me a chance out in the field.”
I exhale through my nose and pinch the bridge of it, already tired of where this is going.
“Clara…”
“No,” she cuts in, not raising her voice, but not yielding an inch either. “I already had this conversation with Titan. I get that you guys worry about me. And I understand my value as an assistant.” Her chin lifts slightly. “But I want more, Justin.”
My eyes drift—traitorous—to the Post-it. To the one thing my tech team couldn’t crack. The one ghost that’s been laughing at us from behind a screen. If Clara has actually done the impossible, she’s a fucking genius.
She notices immediately. Her finger curls, drawing the Post-it back toward her chest, guarding it like a secret she knows I’ll bleed for.
“Promise me, Justin.”
“Let me see it.”
Her brows arch. “Justin…”
“I promise,” I say, already calculating the damage. “But first, you get training. A year of it, at the very minimum. No shortcuts.”
She studies me for a beat—measuring, weighing. Then the corner of her mouth lifts, slow and satisfied. A smug little smile she doesn’t bother hiding.
“You have a deal.”
And only then does she slide the name across the desk.
Rowan Hale.
The name settles deep in my marrow. Not because it’s familiar—but because it feels like it should be.
“How did you get this?” I ask.
Clara smiles, sharp and knowing. “You forget who you’re talking to. There’s a reason you kept me here when Titan left.”
She’s right. Clara is the best at what she does—smart, resourceful, impossible to corner. She doesn’t wait for answers to surface. She chases them.
“I’ve done my part.” Clara looks at me one last time, already turning toward the door. “You’ll have to run the background yourself. And I think I’ve earned an early finish.”
