The Saint-Germain mansion's lower levels thrummed with Rhys's purposeful shadows, the air thick with the metallic tang of concealed armaments and the low buzz of encrypted comms.
Sunset bled crimson through high windows, but Rhys moved in twilight's cloak, transforming in the armory.
The disguise was meticulous. A crisp lab coat over scrubs, stethoscope draped like a necklace, ID badge fabricated from hospital templates as Dr. Elias Thorne, neurology consultant, QR code linking to a ghost server.
Beneath, a slim vial of potassium chloride nestled in his pocket, colorless and lethal in overdose.
Enough to mimic cardiac arrest, undetectably human in a dying man's chart. No guns, no spectacle.
Eliot hovered at the periphery, tablet aglow with schematics. "Feeds looped. Staff schedule
