LYRA’S POV
The rhythmic, mechanical click of the keys beneath my fingers was the only anchor keeping me awake.
It was 2:45 AM. The kitchen of The Rusty Spoke had been dark for over an hour, leaving only the amber glow of the emergency exit sign and the harsh, blue-white luminescence of my terminal screen to illuminate the back booth. My eyes burned, the thin veins in my sclera throbbing from a lack of sleep, but my movements remained entirely deliberate. I had my oversized denim apron laid across the vinyl bench next to me, my faded gray t-shirt smelling faintly of the lemon-scented floor disinfectant I had just used to scrub the dish pit.
On the table sat my cracked digital tablet, its interface split into a dual-window display.
The left window held the raw, monolithic data dump from
