The night after Kieran's call tasted like iron.
Matthew didn't sleep. He stood in the war room long after the alarms were silenced, maps projected across the walls, red pins multiplying like infections. Every corridor of the compound had been swept twice. Every guard rotated. Every camera rewound and rewatched.
Aiden was still in his room.
Physically.
That was the problem.
"He hasn't left the west wing," Rafe said, voice low, steady. "No breaches. No signs of forced contact."
Matthew's fingers curled slowly against the table. "Then how did Kieran know?"
No one answered.
Vinny stood near the doorway, arms crossed tight over his chest, watching Matthew with a worry he didn't bother hiding. "He's inside our heads," Vinny said. "That's how he's always done it."
Matthew finally looked at him. "He knew about the archive."
Vinny's breath caught. "Aiden—"
"I know," Matthew cut in, not unkindly. "This isn't on him."
