The night was a predator. It stalked the corridors of the hotel, slipped through the gaps under the door, and breathed a cold silence into the suite. I didn't sleep. Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford, a vulnerability I couldn't risk. Instead, I sat in the darkened living room of my own adjoining suite, a glass of untouched water in my hand, the city lights a distant, indifferent galaxy beyond the window.
The USB drive was on the table in front of me. It looked innocuous, a piece of cheap plastic and metal. But it was a bomb. And I had no idea if I was holding it or if it was programmed to detonate in my hand. The woman from the café, Maya, Charles—they were all moving pieces on a board I couldn't fully see. My only move, for now, was to wait.
