I look up. The courtyard is empty, save for Asher, who is standing by the water fountain, looking confused, rubbing his temples. And Elara, who is sitting under the oak tree, her sketchbook dropped to the grass, her silver eyes wide with terror.
Then, the physical alarms begin to scream.
The breach is not an army. It is a ghost.
I sprint toward the Administration Wing, Kade limping rapidly beside me. My hands are fumbling with the tactical holster strapped to my thigh, drawing my heavy, UN-issue sidearm. The jammer is localized, cutting off our mental communication, but it doesn't cut off our physical training. We move in perfect, practiced synchronization, clearing the corners of the courtyard, our eyes scanning the tree line.
"Morgan!" I shout into my physical comms unit, the earpiec
