The hallway of the Dearborn brownstone felt like a wind tunnel, the air vibrating with the approach of a man I had watched disintegrate in a volcanic vault. Marcello’s voice—smooth, cultured, and layered with the silk of a thousand betrayals—was a physical weight against the door.
Roman didn't flinch. He shifted his stance, his body instinctively moving to shield me even as his weapon remained trained on the girl who shared my face. The green in Lucia’s eyes pulsed with a rhythmic, digital intensity, a bio-luminescent glow that made her look less like my sister and more like a high-end piece of Volkov hardware.
"The kill-switch, Roman," Lucia reminded him, her finger hovering over the remote with a terrifying, steady grace. "If Marcello enters this room and finds a corpse, the Algorithm
