The underground laboratory smelled wrong.
Not chemically wrong—Elena kept her workspace sterile enough for surgical procedures. Wrong in that hunter-instinct way that made the hair on my neck stand up before conscious thought caught up.
Copper. Ozone. And underneath both, something I'd learned to recognize over nine years of hunting things that shouldn't exist: dimensional energy signature. The smell of reality being torn open.
"Elena?" I called, descending the last few steps into the research space beneath Luna Academy. My hand went automatically to the Luna-blood knife at my belt. Precision meant always being armed. Always ready.
The laboratory looked like Elena had stepped away for coffee. Equipment humming, displays showing active experiments, notes scattered across her workstation in her precise handwriting. But no Elena.
