The Spire's fiftieth floor had become a war room of ghosts.
Caleb stood at the center of the room, the fragment of the master key cradled in his palm, its faint pulse a steady rhythm against his skin. The map on the terminal glowed with three points of light, each one marking the location of a subject who had slipped through the cracks of the federal dragnet. Elias Voss sat in the chair beside the terminal, his grey coat hanging loose on a frame that had grown gaunt in the weeks since the Proscenium went down. The others were gathered around—Nyla, Troy, Vance, Deji—their faces lit by the cold glow of the screen.
"The first subject," Elias said, his voice a dry rasp, "is a woman named Wren. Subject 4. She was activated five years ago, but she broke free during a field operation and has be
