The safehouse smelled of stale coffee and ozone. Nora had been sitting at the massive metal desk for six hours straight, her fingers flying across the illuminated keyboard. The pain in her ribs had faded to a dull throb, masked entirely by the electric surge of absolute focus.

Silas stood behind h

The safehouse was a concrete box on the edge of the industrial district, stripped of warmth and filled with the low, constant hum of federal-grade servers. Rain lashed against the single reinforced window, but Nora Sterling didn’t flinch. Her eyes remained locked on the glowing lines of code cascadi

The fog rolling off the harbor was thick, clinging to the rusted shipping containers at Pier 44 like dirty cotton. The air tasted of salt, diesel, and decay. Nora stood in the center of a clearing between two towering stacks of metal crates, the collar of her black trench coat turned up against the