The air in Zeta’s apartment was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old paper and the metallic tang of his hidden electronics. He had spent the last hour in a state of absolute, calculated stillness, his mind still echoing with the voice of his mother. The floppy disk was safely tucked away, but the weight of the revelation remained. He was sitting at his small, scarred desk, his hands resting on an open manual, when the silence was shattered by a sharp, aggressive thud against his door.
Zeta did not jump. He did not let his pulse quicken in a way that would register on any external monitor. He simply closed his book with a slow, deliberate movement, his face settling into a look of mild, weary annoyance. He knew exactly who was on the other side of that door, and he knew that the time fo
