The device sat on the edge of Ronan’s palm like something alive.
Small. Silent. Patient.
Nyra watched it for a moment longer than necessary, then looked away not because she was afraid of it, but because she understood it too well.
Being watched wasn’t new.
Being used was.
Ronan closed his fingers slightly around the tracker.
“Someone placed this carefully,” he said.
Nyra leaned lightly against the workbench, arms crossed again, her torn sleeve now forgotten but not forgiven.
“You’re stating the obvious.”
A faint pause.
Then Ronan glanced at her.
“No,” he said. “I’m stating intent.”
That made her look at him again.
Intent was different.
Intent meant design, planning, awareness.
Not accident.
Nyra exhaled slowly.
“So we’re not dealing with amateurs,” she said.
Ronan turned
