The morning of departure crept over Madrid like a curtain slowly rising on a stage—where the set was already in place, and the actors were only just beginning to move.
The hallway of the hotel's second floor looked like a warehouse coming to life: suitcases scattered across the floor, gym bags piled on top of each other, sneakers, towels, pillows, and even a folded yoga mat inexplicably resting beside a potted plant. Faint curses echoed down the corridor, zippers groaned, and suitcase wheels clattered unevenly.
The sun had barely risen over the edge of the city, but the hotel's kitchenette was already awake.
Sloane stood at the counter in training pants, her hair loosely tied back, though a few stubborn strands had escaped as usual. The coffee machine hissed, the toaster popped, and ora
