Nevara
The house had grown quiet by the time I returned to Thoren’s office.
Afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting soft patterns across the desk where my notes were spread out in careful rows. Each page represented hours of conversation, observation, and instinct—ten candidates reduced to a handful of possibilities, each one carrying the potential to either strengthen or undermine the fragile sense of security we were trying to rebuild.
I leaned back in the chair, tapping the end of my pen against the margin of my notebook. Elena Morales’s name was circled, accompanied by a series of positive observations—calm demeanor, genuine responses, strong sense of discretion. Everything about her suggested sincerity.
But a few pages later, another name stood out for entire
