The damp, suffocating heat of the Comoro tunnels was a stark, visceral contrast to the sterile, air conditioned graveyard they had just left behind. Above them, the villa Maricha Sonoko’s architectural masterpiece, a structure of glass and high grade titanium was now nothing more than a roaring funeral pyre lighting up the tropical night. The "Ghost Protocol" had been executed with surgical precision. To the Syndicate’s orbital eyes and thermal sensors, the "Node" was now just a charred, cooling smudge on a volcanic cliffside.
Maricha led the way through the bowels of the island, her tactical boots splashing through an inch of brackish, mineral rich water. She didn't look back; an architect of her caliber didn't mourn the destruction of buildings. She only mourned the loss of structural i
