The air in the Vault had shifted from the heavy, musk-scented heat of the night before to a clinical, refrigerated chill. Sloane stood before the monitors, her fingers flying across the holographic interface. The "Pale Horse"—the specter in the gray coat—was still standing in the rain on the surface, a silent silhouette against the neon filth of the West Loop.
Sloane stared at the screen, a phantom ache blooming behind her ribs. She didn't know his name. She didn't know his face. But the way he stood—shoulders squared, head tilted at a precise six-degree angle—sent a jolt of cellular recognition through her that she couldn't explain.
"He’s using a harmonic bypass," Sloane whispered, her voice trembling. "It’s not a hack. It’s a symphony. He’s navigating our encryption like he wrote the n
