The private jet sat on the tarmac like a silent, silver needle, its engines whistling a low, mournful frequency that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of my bones. It bore no markings, no logos, no corporate identity—just a stark, polished exterior that reflected the bruising purple of the Pacific twilight.
We stood at the edge of the runway, the salt-heavy wind whipping my hair across my face. Julian held Florence, who was bundled so tightly she looked like a small, soft secret. Ethan stood beside me, his hand anchored to mine. His grip was almost painful now, a desperate physical tether as he felt the "Vesper frequency" growing louder, a digital siren song pulling at the edges of his consciousness.
"The benefactor," Julian whispered, nodding toward the plane’s lowering ramp. "Whoeve
