Morning seeped slowly over Madrid, like a quiet dawn-forgiveness. On the hotel's third floor, life had already begun to stir: a drawn-out yawn from the hallway, the distant chime of the elevator, the clink of the first trays rolled out by staff.
In the kitchenette, again, only one light was on. But today, it didn't feel cold.
The coffee machine breathed softly; steam and half-formed thoughts swirled in the air.
Sloane stood at the counter, a tablet in one hand, a mug of black coffee in the other.
Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, her T-shirt was oversized and comfortable, her movements quiet but purposeful.
The faint red mark on her wrist had almost vanished—though she didn't seem to care.
Her eyes scanned the screen, sharp and focused, sipping occasionally, as if she relied mo
