“Whichever one makes her break first.”
47
Aaron
Location: Government Coordination Center — Lisbon
Time: Night
Idon’t like this building.
Too much glass. Too many reflections. Too many blind angles pretending to be transparent.
And too many civilians who think proximity to power makes them safe.
It doesn’t.
It makes them exposed.
Ronan is ten meters away, posture loose, voice sharp—playing irritation with a tech who doesn’t realize he’s being used as cover.
His eyes aren’t on the man.
They’re moving.
Tracking.
Counting.
Lark stands at the center station, surrounded by light and data, already gone somewhere the rest of us can’t follow. Her fingers move, but it’s automatic.
She’s not typing.
She’s translating chaos.
And something is wrong.
“Ronan,” I murmur, barely moving my lips. “Tell me you’re sweeping internal feeds.”
“Constantly,” he replies. “Why?”
“Because the noise just changed.”
I feel it before I see it.
That shift.
That microscopic break in rhythm where everything almost looks the same—
But isn’t.
A man stands from a workstation.
Not his station.
No badge clipped.
No hesitation.
