“Or,” countered Agent Marcus Cole, “they’re tired. Running alone for a decade. Maybe they want out.”

The opera house smelled of dust and old velvet. Marcus stood in the center of the stage, beneath a shattered chandelier. The hour struck midnight.

A shadow detached itself from the third balcony.

The chandelier hummed. The neural dampener activated.

Marcus held up the file. “Come with us. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“No,” she said. “I’m just the messenger. Vixi Rafi is an idea . And you can’t mute an idea.”

It landed without a sound. Small. Hooded. When the hood fell back, Marcus felt his breath seize.