Six months later, spring had transformed Brooklyn with that particular kind of renewal that made even cynical New Yorkers briefly optimistic about humanity's future. Louis sat at their apartment's small kitchen table, her laptop open to final edits of her book manuscript—*The Volkov Conspiracy: Thirty Years of Espionage, Betrayal, and the Price of Truth.*
Her shoulder had healed completely, though physical therapy continued weekly. The psychological scars took longer to fade. Nightmares still woke her occasionally, dreams of containers and timers and gunfire that felt more real than memory should allow.
But she was writing again. Publishing again. Living again.
"Publisher wants to move release date up two weeks," Louis called to Ral, who was in the living room reviewing documents for hi
