Part I
The HARTMAN war room smelled of coffee, wet coats, and adrenaline. Overnight rain still lashed against the high windows, dragging grey ribbons down the glass; the world outside looked blurred, half‑remembered.
At six a.m., everyone was already there. Elias at the head of the long console, Damian cross‑checking files, Julian coaxing a reluctant network server back to life. The stolen data from the gala scrolled across four curved monitors…a constellation of numbers and encrypted folders that refused to yield simple meaning.
I stood behind them, sweater thrown over the black dress I’d never had time to change out of. Luca placed a second mug beside me with his usual precision.
“Still hot,” he said.
“Still bitter,” I answered.
He smirked. “Suited to the hour.”
For twenty minutes
