The smoke from the bank explosion was still hanging over Dodoma like a dirty shroud when we hit the perimeter of the National Stadium. My lungs felt like they were filled with hot ash, and every step I took sent a jolt of electricity through the dark veins in my arms. The Archive wasn't just a map anymore; it was screaming. It knew we were close to the source. It knew the real Sasha was beneath the concrete.
"Stay low," Razack hissed, pulling me behind a rusted shipping container near the Gate 4 entrance.
He looked like a man who had crawled out of hell. His shirt was shredded, soaked in a mixture of his own blood and the hydraulic fluid from the bank’s vault. He was operating on pure adrenaline and whatever dark promise he’d made to himself to keep me alive.
"The stadium isn't just a s
