The air in the basement of the HQ was thick with the suffocating smell of stale coffee, cold take-out, and the low-frequency hum of high-end servers.
Hansen didn't look like the gentle, tired barista Amara knew. The faded denim and the flour-dusted apron had been discarded for a tactical black hoodie and cargo pants. His hair, usually tied back in a loose, messy knot, was disheveled, framing a face that was haggard from forty-eight hours of sleeplessness. His eyes were bloodshot, glowing with a frantic, obsessive light as they tracked the scrolling data on a dozen monitors.
"You're going to burn out, Hansen. And when you do, you'll be useless to her," a voice said from the shadows near the weapon rack.
