The humidity of the Comoros night clung to the ancient stone walls of the villa like a damp shroud, but inside the control room, the air was chilled to a precise, biting temperature to protect the humming servers. Maricha Sonoko stood by the panoramic window, her silhouette framed by the distant, glowing amber of Mount Karthala. She wasn't looking at the volcano; she was watching the digital traffic on her translucent glass tablet, her eyes reflecting the cold light of the data streams.
"The Syndicate has stopped looking for a girl, Nala," Maricha Sonoko said, her voice echoing in the sterile, high tech room. "They are now looking for a 'Node.' They’ve realized that the data isn't just sitting on a drive; it’s breathing. It’s being accessed. They are tracing the pings from our satellite u
