The salt air of the harbor still clung to Tristan’s coat, a stark contrast to the scent of expensive cologne and artificial lilies wafting from the Grand Meridian Hotel. He smoothed his worn jacket, feeling entirely out of place amidst the sea of silk gowns and tailored tuxedos."You look like you're about to rob the place, or die of an aneurysm," a voice purred from the shadows of a marble pillar.Tristan spun around. Victoria was leaning against the architecture, draped in a backless, midnight-blue gown that screamed 'trouble' louder than the neon yellow jackets at the pier. She held a glass of champagne as if it were a tactical weapon."You," Tristan growled, ignoring the curious stares of a passing socialite. "Give me back my file, Victoria. I’m not playing games."She took a slow sip, her eyes dancing with wicked delight. "My, my. Such hostility. We’re at a black-tie event, darling. Try to blend in.""I don't blend. I survive. Big difference." He stepped into her personal space,

The blast wave hit like a physical punch, turning the loft’s sleek, minimalist architecture into a storm of flying drywall and shattered glass. Tristan didn’t think; he lunged, tackling Victoria to the floorboards just as a second, heavier explosive device detonated against the exterior wall."Okay! Point taken!" Tristan shouted over the ringing in his ears, his body shielding her from the shrapnel. "We’re leaving! We’re leaving!"Victoria shoved him off, her hair a wild, dusty mess and her mascara slightly smudged, giving her a fierce, feral look that made his heart stutter. "You think? My favorite lamp is currently confetti, Tristan!""Forget the lamp! Grab your gear!"They scrambled through the smoke, vaulting over the shredded remains of a sofa. Tristan kicked the service door open, the hallway beyond already filling with the acrid scent of ozone and burning synthetic fibers."The docks," she gasped, checking her pistol’s slide. "If they’re blowing up my home, they’re definitely m

The fluorescent lights of the city library’s archives hummed with a sound that grated against Tristan’s nerves. He sat at a mahogany desk scarred by decades of student frustration, the stolen ledger splayed open before him like an unwanted prophecy."You realize," Victoria said, leaning against a bookshelf and flicking a stray lock of hair from her eyes, "that choosing a library as a base of operations is classic. It’s like the 'let’s hide in the villain’s lair' trope, just with more dust and less evil furniture."Tristan didn't look up, his fingers dancing across a portable, high-speed decryption deck he’d scavenged. "It’s quiet. And nobody looks for a guy who smells like motor oil and desperation in the genealogy section.""Speak for yourself," she retorted, tossing a snack-sized bag of pretzels onto the desk. "I smell like high-end jasmine and tactical survival, thank you very much. Did you find anything?""I’m getting there. My father’s cipher isn't just a code; it’s a living docu

The mahogany desk felt like a relic of a ghost, the photo burning a hole in Tristan’s palm. "He’s working with the man who took everything from me," Tristan muttered, his voice hollow. "All these years, I thought he was a martyr."Victoria gripped his forearm, her gaze darting to the shadows in the corners of the study. "Don't get sentimental, Ghost. Martyrs are just people who didn't have a good enough exit strategy. Right now, he’s just a target with a very nice collection of fountain pens.""You have no chill, you know that?" Tristan let out a jagged laugh, though his eyes remained fixed on the darkened doorway."Chill is for people who aren't currently trespassing in a high-security bunker," she retorted, nudging him toward the exit. "Let’s keep moving. I have a feeling the welcome mat is about to be retracted."They stepped back into the hallway, the marble floor cold beneath their boots. Tristan’s pulse was a frantic drumbeat in his ears. He looked at the walls, recognizing the

The air in the hallway had curdled into a sickly, yellow-green fog. Tristan pulled his tactical scarf over his nose and mouth, his eyes stinging as the aerosolized nerve agent began to bite. Every breath was a gamble, but he didn't slow his pace. He vaulted over a fallen vending machine, his boots skidding on the slick floor, and slammed his shoulder into the door of the primary holding block."Victoria!" he barked, his voice muffled by the fabric."I’m still here, you big lug," came a strained, breathless reply from the darkness. "But I really hope you brought some breath mints or a miracle, because this gas smells like a gym bag that sat in the sun for a month."Tristan pushed through the heavy-duty door. The room was bathed in the harsh, strobing red of a containment alarm. Victoria was slumped against the reinforced wall, her hands cuffed to a vertical pipe. She looked pale, her hair matted with sweat, but the moment she saw him, her lips curved into that familiar, infuriatingly b