The library felt colder than usual, a deep and biting chill that seemed to seep through the sterile walls and settle into the marrow of Zeta’s bones. He had barely settled into his workstation when the atmosphere shifted. A heavy silence descended upon the grand hall, punctuated only by the crisp, authoritative rhythm of polished boots striking the floor. It was a sound that commanded immediate compliance. Zeta kept his eyes fixed on the archaic file he was processing, his heart rate carefully regulated to a steady, rhythmic thrum.
A man stepped into his peripheral vision. He was tall, dressed in the charcoal-grey uniform of a Neural Detective, and his presence radiated a sharp, clinical intelligence. This was Vane. Zeta had heard whispers about him in the common areas, stories of a man
