It was 11:00 PM, the peak hour for the Riverport "ants" to finish their shifts and reclaim their children. The quiet of the Little Red Pony Academy’s dormitory was regularly punctuated by the sound of the front gate creaking and the soft murmur of weary parents. Nearly half the children had already been collected, leaving the rest huddled under cotton throw blankets, drifting in and out of dreams.
As Ethan Gray descended the stairs, a man entered the building just ahead of him. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, clutching a battered leather briefcase. Despite the sweltering 90-degree heat of the Riverport night, he was dressed in a long-sleeved white dress shirt and black trousers. His frame was a bit portly, and his round face was a map of exhaustion, slick with a lay
