The Persian rug beneath my feet shows signs of wear where I've traced the same path for the past hour—heel to toe between the mahogany bookshelf and the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame my private office like a stage set for deception. My hands are steady despite the caffeine coursing through my system, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as the weight of decision. The morning sun slants through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across my desk where the evidence from last night's surveillance lies organized in neat stacks. Each folder represents another thread in Derek's web, another betrayal catalogued and documented. But documentation alone won't be enough.
I pause at the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass as I watch the city wake
