The drone was a physical thing. It bored into my skull, a single, unwavering note of finality that vibrated through the floor, through the crystal glasses still clutched in petrified hands, through the very foundation of my world. The green line on the screen was a wound slashed across the darkness, a testament to a life that had just been extinguished sixty miles away, in a frozen prison of my own making.
Vera was dead.
The thought didn't land with grief. It landed with a stunning, hollow impact, like a blow I hadn't seen coming. My mind, trained for threats and strategies, struggled to categorize this. It was an event, a data point, an ending. But the high-pitched wail filling the hall felt like an accusation.
Mia’s grip on my arm was a vise. “Lorenzo, make it stop,” she whispered, he
