The meeting place between Nash's group and Harlan was an old textile factory of which only cracked walls and a few sewing machines eaten by rust remained, abandoned like carcasses in the middle of the dust.
It was Nash who had chosen this place, isolated enough to avoid prying ears, close enough to the Spires to remain practical.
Harlan showed up through the service door in a visible state of panic, closely followed by Saya, still pale, arms tightly crossed against herself as if to keep herself standing.
"Nash," Harlan said, out of breath, before he'd even finished crossing the room. "We need to talk, right now, I—"
"I already know," Nash cut in, without even turning around. He was standing near a window boarded up with planks, back straight, arms crossed. A small discreet earpiece lodged in his right ear, almost invisible under his hair. "I listened to the recording."
