The underground conference room no longer resembled an executive boardroom. It resembled a battlefield.
The polished cedar walls and sleek silver trimmings, usually reserved for hostile takeovers, were entirely swallowed by the frantic chaos of survival. Maps covered the glass partitions.
Archive diagrams overlapped with surveillance stills of Cassian sightings. Red markers slashed across transmission residues and erratic energy spikes. The high-end climate control hummed, blowing cold AC into a room that felt suffocatingly dense.
Everyone looked exhausted. The ambient lighting caught the hollows under their eyes and the sharp tension in their postures.
Cael sat at the head of the table. He was a broad-shouldered wall of controlled violence, perfectly still, his dark eyes locked on the scattered data. Alistair stood near the primary monitor, his expression deadpan and analytical, while Jadelyn tapped her pen against a tablet with quiet, pragmatic rhythm.
