The abandoned factory loft smelled of rust and desperation. Aria paced the narrow path between makeshift partitions, her boots echoing softly on the concrete. Emma slept fitfully behind one screen, her shoulder wound bandaged but still a stark reminder of how deep the knives had gone. Rogue stood at the cracked window, staring out at the capital’s distant lights, his massive frame silhouetted against the night. The space was too small for three people with this much weight on their shoulders. Every breath felt shared, every silence heavy.
“The Architect — Senator Harlan Graves — controls half the border security contracts and three major clubs,” Rogue said quietly, reviewing the stolen files again. “Your father wasn’t the start. He was just the delivery system. The senator needed a clean
