Daxton looked different at night.
Not softer. Not quieter.
Sharper.
Like the shadows came alive when no one was watching—trading secrets in the dark corners, whispering truths the daylight was too cowardly to carry.
Sonia sat on the roof above the east library, legs hanging over the edge, hoodie up, notebook open across her lap. The pages were filled with scrawls. Plans. Crossed-out timelines. Circled names.
One name now had a thick, dark line through it: Claire Lexton.
She had confirmed it an hour ago.
A library server, buried in the database backup logs, had a subfolder. Misnamed. Misfiled.
Inside it: a timestamped recording.
Claire. Talking to someone off-camera.
“The girl thinks she’s surviving. Let her. That’s how we control them. Give them a story, and they’ll die trying to
