Inside the private lounge at Sky Tower, Jackson stood by the window, one hand pressed to the cool glass as his friends, James, Nancy, and Bella, watched him—waiting for him to speak, to explain the unspoken dread that had drawn them here in the dead of night.Andrew and Hailey had not been able to make it, as both had gone out on a date before Jackson’s message came. After the beach party, both of them had really become closer and were going steady even if they were not yet officially a couple.James was the first to crack under the tension. He leaned forward in his seat, his voice sharp but edged with worry. “Alright, Jackson—what is it? You called us here, said it couldn’t wait. You’re pacing around like you’re about to drop a bomb. Just say it.”Nancy, perched at the far end of the couch, hugged a pillow to her chest like a shield. “Please, Jackson… We’ve all seen the news. The storm, the bus crash, the people who—” She broke off, eyes glistening. “It wasn’t just a freak accident,

The city seemed to blur past him as Jackson tore through the sleeping streets, tires skimming corners, the growl of the engine drowned by the roar inside his chest. The Flameborn pulsed beneath his ribs like a second heart, urging him faster. Every red light, every stretch of asphalt was one more heartbeat too many—one more moment Dr. Celestine didn’t have.When he reached the safe house, the night was alive with the flicker of red and blue. Fire engines flanked the street like armored beasts. Long black hoses snaked across the pavement, spewing streams of water that hissed into the blaze eating through the building like a living, breathing monster.Jackson leapt from the car before it had even stopped rolling. The first thing he saw was Mr. Copper—standing near the barricade with his coat drawn tight around him, his eyes locked on the flames, a grim silhouette beneath the pulsing emergency lights.Jackson charged straight to him. “How long?” he demanded, the words shredding his throa

The hum of the elevator was the only sound as the three of them rode it up into the Sky Tower’s quiet core. The night outside was still broken by the distant pulse of emergency lights far below—a reminder that the city hadn’t fully settled yet, that embers still glowed in places only they knew to look.Jackson leaned his shoulder against the wall, eyes half-closed, exhaustion hanging off him like a wet coat. Bella stood close, her hand loosely linked with his, thumb tracing small, grounding circles against his skin. Mr. Copper, standing in the corner, said nothing—just watched the floor numbers tick upward with that quiet, unwavering watchfulness that had kept them alive this long.When the elevator doors slid open, the bright, welcoming hush of Sky Tower’s private floor seemed almost unreal after the harshness of the hospital’s white walls and the taste of smoke still clinging to Jackson’s throat.Copper gave Jackson a small, wordless nod as they stepped out. “Get some rest,” he said

Inside the high-rise penthouse at the Grand Laureate Hotel, the three international observers sat around a circular glass table, its surface littered with tablets, phones, a half-empty decanter of scotch, and dossiers marked with government seals that had been broken long before tonight.Zhang Yao, of the Jade Consortium, leaned back in his chair. He looked perfectly at ease, his fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm on the armrest. His dark eyes were fixed on Dmitry Sokolov across the table, who was far less composed.“This is taking too long!” Dmitry growled in accented English. “We came here for the asset, Zhang—not to sip whiskey and admire the skyline.”Zhang only raised an eyebrow, unbothered by the outburst. He poured himself another small glass of scotch, swirling it once before replying. “And what do you suggest? Storm Sky tower with mercenaries? Drag him out in front of the world’s cameras while the CIA breathes down our necks? You know how Whitaker operates. You think

Jackson pushed the door open with a careful hand, as if even the soft groan of the hinges might shatter the fragile hush inside Celestine’s hospital room. The first thing that greeted him wasn’t the sight of her, but the steady, mechanical whisper of life—the soft, relentless beep of the monitors that marked each stubborn beat of her heart. It was a small comfort, a reminder that she was still here, still fighting.Bella hovered just outside the doorway, one foot inside, her fingers brushing the frame as if ready to bolt forward the moment Jackson asked. Mr. Copper stepped in behind him, his presence a dark silhouette against the hallway’s harsh white light. But it wasn’t the monitors or the hush of the hallway that rooted Jackson where he stood. It was the flowers.Jackson stepped closer and reached out, plucking the card tucked neatly among the flowers. The card stock was heavy, expensive enough that even the paper whispered power. He flipped it over and read the line scrawled in l