The engine of the armored SUV purred with a low, predatory hum as we tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago. Inside the cabin, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and the cold, sharp focus of a war that had reset its own clock. Roman sat beside me, his laptop open, the screen a chaotic waterfall of red data strings. He wasn't looking at the ledger anymore; he was hunting a shadow that shouldn't exist.
"A second birth certificate, Roman?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. I was rubbing the place on my wrist where the phantom weight of the silver Sucre usually sat. "My father was many things—a liar, a thief, a ghost—but he was obsessed with the 'Stellaris' project. He told me I was the only variable. The only star."
"Your father was a writer, Bri
