Chapter 47 Aaron
Aaron
Location: Government Coordination Center — Lisbon
Time: Night
Idon’t like this building.
Too much glass. Too many reflections. Too many blind angles pretending to be transparent.
And too many civilians who think proximity to power makes them safe.
It doesn’t.
It makes them exposed.
Ronan is ten meters away, posture loose, voice sharp—playing irritation with a tech who doesn’t realize he’s being used as cover.
His eyes aren’t on the man.
They’re moving.
Tracking.
Counting.
Lark stands at the center station, surrounded by light and data, already gone somewhere the rest of us can’t follow. Her fingers move, but it’s automatic.
She’s not typing.
She’s translating chaos.
And something is wrong.
“Ronan,” I murmur, barely moving my lips. “Tell me you’re sweeping internal feeds.”
“Constantly,” he replies. “Why?”
“Because the noise just changed.”
I feel it before I see it.
That shift.
That microscopic break in rhythm where everything almost looks the same—
But isn’t.
A man stands from a workstation.
Not his station.
No badge clipped.
No hesitation.
Wrong posture.
Too still.
Too calm.
He reaches inside his jacket.
I’m already moving.
No warning.
No hesitation.
Distance collapses under me.
I hit him hard—shoulder to chest, driving him back before he can clear the weapon.
The shot goes off anyway.
Too late.
Glass detonates behind us—shards exploding outward like shrapnel.
Screams rip through the room.
We slam into the floor.
He recovers fast.
Faster than most.
Trained.
Disciplined.
Not enough.
I trap his arm, torque it sideways—
Bone snaps.
The gun skids across the floor.
He doesn’t scream.
Doesn’t hesitate.
His other hand flashes—
Knife.
I drive my elbow into his throat.
Hard.
Precise.
Final.
Air leaves him in a broken sound.
His body goes slack.
Done.
Security floods the room seconds later—too loud, too reactive, too late to matter.
Always too late.
I rise, scanning—
Counting.
Angles.
Threat vectors.
Then I find her.
Lark.
She’s standing exactly where she was.
But she’s not there anymore.
Her face is white.
Still.
Too still.
“You okay?” I ask, stepping toward her.
She nods.
But her eyes aren’t on me.
They’re on the screens.
And then—
The room changes.
Sound drops out.
Movement slows.
Because every screen—
Every single one—
flickers.
Overrides.
And then the message appears.
Black background.
White text.
Clean.
Deliberate.
You can’t guard him forever.
The words don’t feel like a threat.
They feel like a promise.