Sebastian.
London did not care about truth.
It moved anyway. Traffic flowed. Signals changed. Pedestrians crossed. The world remained ordinary — while somewhere within it, Vivian was being moved like a secret too dangerous to stay still.
Our convoy cut through the city with controlled urgency. No sirens. No spectacle. Just precision.
Lucas sat beside me in the rear vehicle, tablet balanced against his knee, tracking movement reports from our surveillance team. His calm never meant comfort. It meant calculation.
Clara sat opposite us. Composed. Silent. Watching.
She had chosen to come. That alone made her either useful… or dangerous. Neither option allowed trust.
"Signal came from a private transport hub near Canary Wharf," Lucas said quietly. "Temporary location. Likely a transition point, not the destination."
"How long do we have?" I asked.
"Minutes," he replied. "If we are lucky."
Luck was not a strategy. Speed was.
