A shrill klaxon split the night's hush. The grand ballroom's chandeliers dimmed, then snapped off, plunging Thorne Tower into darkness. Gasps and startled cries rippled through the gathering of black‑tied guests.
Camila crouched in a service corridor behind the ballroom wall, sweat beading on her brow. She tapped her tablet. “Power grid reconfigured," she whispered into the comm. “Hallways going dark in thirty seconds."
A dozen sedated children lay on medical beds in the secret lab beneath the ballroom. Camila slipped across the smooth floor, heart pounding. She carried a duffel bag bulging with devices—flash drives, lock overrides, and two blocks of C‑4.
“Almost there," she murmured, laying the charges beneath each cryo unit. She tested the timer: ten minutes until detonation.
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