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The building is glass.
Flags.
Soft lighting.
Polished floors.
The kind of place designed to look transparent.
It isn’t.
Security is polite.
Efficient.
Controlled.
I hate it.
Ronan walks beside me, already pulling feeds into a portable display.
“They’re nervous,” he murmurs.
“Good.”
We’re led into a conference room.
Large.
Neutral.
Deliberately impersonal.
Two intelligence representatives.
One Europol liaison.
And one man who doesn’t introduce himself.
He doesn’t have to.
Ronan leans slightly toward me.
“Oversight Council,” he murmurs. “One of the architects.”
Good.
I meet the man’s eyes.
No hesitation.
No respect offered.
“You’re holding Dr. Lark London,” I say.
Not a question.
A statement.
