The family gathered in Pill’s office again, the heavy quiet broken only by the hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional scrape of paper on wood.
This war had transformed the room. What was once a warm, curated space—lined with framed family photos, books, old maps—now pulsed with urgency. The walls were cluttered with taped-up notes, printed satellite images, hastily scribbled diagrams. The long table was littered with open laptops, half-drunk coffee mugs, and a single broken pencil that no one had bothered to toss.
Sofia sat on the edge of the leather couch, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her expression was unreadable—but the tension in her shoulders screamed louder than words.
Pill—Telpiltzin to anyone outside this room—stood near the window, hands behind his back, gaze pinned to
