"It's live."
Andreas’s voice is the only sound in the library. He’s hunched over his laptop, a cable running from the small black box I found to his USB port. The screen flickers with a grainy, wide-angle view of the room.
I see us. I see Andreas sitting at the desk. I see Stavros standing like a statue of pure, frozen rage by the window. And I see the leather chair where, ten minutes ago, I was screaming Stavros’s name.
"Live?" I whisper, the bile rising in my throat. "You mean it’s recording?"
"I mean it’s streaming," Andreas corrects, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Encrypted signal. Bouncing through three servers in Russia, but the end point is local. Someone isn't just watching recordings, Alina. They’re watching us in real-time."
I feel sick. Violently sick.
I wrap my
