Jack didn’t sleep that night.
Even as the wind whispered against the broken stone of the temple ruins, he stayed rooted to the rooftop, eyes on the stars, Joe’s journal clutched tight in his hand. Somewhere out there was the truth—twisted, buried, weaponized. And he could feel it, just out of reach.
By morning, the rooftop was empty.
He descended quietly into the bunker, where Victor sat hunched over a projection table, digital files flickering against his scarred face. William was asleep in the corner, arms crossed, while Sarah stood by the door with her blade leaning against her shoulder.
Jack walked straight to Victor. “Start talking. All of it.”
Victor didn’t flinch. “The Guardian… is George Wilson.”
The words hung in the air like poison.
Jack blinked. “Emily’s grandfather?”
Vi
