POV RUBY
The night on Skellig Mor was an oppressive shroud of charcoal clouds and the relentless, rhythmic thundering of the Atlantic against the cliffs. Inside the bunker, the air smelled of ozone, gun oil, and the bitter dregs of black coffee. The men were prepping in the lower armory, but the tension in the main tactical room was thick enough to choke on.
Nevan was in the communications hub, trying to raise a ghost signal from the city, leaving me alone at the oak table with the unrolled canvas. I was staring at the UV-lit map of the Gallery catacombs, my mind—the 'Old Guest'—tracing the jagged lines of my father’s handwriting. I felt like I was staring into a mirror of my own fractured psyche.
"You’re staring at it as if it’s going to save you," a voice rasped from the shadows.
I d
