The rooftop was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind. Not the sort that blanketed a city after midnight, where soft hums and distant sirens folded into a lullaby. This was different.
This was the silence of something waiting.
Tessa stepped into the cold. Her breath caught as the door sealed behind her with a soft hydraulic hiss. No one followed. No cameras blinked. The surveillance in this quadrant had been down for weeks—"maintenance issues," the Academy claimed. But nothing here ever broke by accident.
Her boots crunched against the gravel-tiled roof, each step louder than it should've been. Every sound felt magnified—her pulse, her breath, the soft, traitorous crinkle of the folded file in her hoodie pocket. A printout. Half a symbol. The crest of the Solar Paragon Unit, barely visible through the sweat on her hands.
Across the rooftop, Hernan Vale stood at the edge.
