It was after midnight when Anais called Irene.
She hadn’t moved from the sofa in hours, the image of Julien and Dahlia stepping into that building with Harlan Quinn frozen on her phone screen. The soft blue glow of it had become the only light in the room.
“I need to know where they went,” she said without preamble.
Irene didn’t ask what had changed. “Already tracing.”
Anais stared ahead, throat tight. “Do it quietly.”
She hung up before Irene could respond.
Cassian entered the room a minute later, his sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed. He looked at her the way people look at old war zones—half memory, half dread.
“What happened?” he asked.
She didn’t hand him the phone.
Just said, “Julien and Dahlia are back. And they’re working with Harlan Quinn.”
Cassian’s expression did
