The alliance was a cold, silent thing. They worked separately but in parallel, a dark mirror of their previous collaboration. Evelyn refined the hybrid schematics, her calculations more aggressive, her details sharper, as if proving her worth against the unseen saboteur. Liam, from his studio, sent bursts of raw, inspired material—a new idea for a rainwater capture system that became a sculptural feature, a sketch for interior shutters carved from reclaimed redwood that mimicked the cliff strata. They exchanged these via Anya, a nervous, trusted courier. The memos were gone. In their place was a wordless understanding: they were under siege.
The siege took a new, overt form a week later. Anya buzzed her, voice tight. “Evelyn. Julian Croft is on line one. For you.”
Julian Croft. Principal
