The war room in Xander’s private office at Avila Tower was dimly lit, the walls covered in faded maps, old surveillance photos, and red strings that had long since gone cold. Five years of searching had turned the space into a shrine of obsession and heartbreak. Empty coffee cups and crumpled reports littered the desk. Xander stood in the center of it all, staring at nothing, his once-vibrant emerald eyes now hollow and exhausted.
His head of security entered quietly, holding a single printed photograph. “Sir… we may have something.”
Xander turned slowly, his posture rigid. “Speak.”
The man placed the photo on the desk with careful hands. “This was taken two weeks ago at a literary festival in Lagos, Nigeria. One of our African contacts flagged it during a routine scan. The woman in the
