Nyra did not sleep.

That was probably a bad sign.

Mateo had cleaned the cut at her lip, taped her ribs, checked her pupils twice, and said words like mild concussion and rest in the same tone people used when they knew the patient would ignore them.

He had not been wrong.

The safehouse room they gave her was too clean.

Gray walls. Metal-framed bed. One locked window. One bathroom. No personal objects. No clutter. No proof anyone had ever been human inside it.

A place designed for survival, not comfort.

Very Ghost.

Nyra sat on the edge of the bed for twenty-three minutes, staring at the door.

Then at the ceiling camera.

Then at the vent.

Then at the keypad beside the door.

Then at the tiny service panel beneath the wall-mounted thermostat.

BLACK VEIL had money.

They had weapons.

They had scary men who walked like murder had muscle memory.

But they also had wiring.

Wiring, unlike men, made sense.

Nyra waited until footsteps faded in the hallway. Kane had passed twice. Elias once. Mateo had stopped outside her door, probably debating whether to sedate her on medical grounds, then wisely kept walking.

Ghost had not passed at all.

That bothered her.

Not because she wanted him to.

Obviously.

She just disliked unfinished arguments.

And men who said things like not anymore while dragging her out of gunfire.

And men who knew more about Milo than they admitted.

Fine.

Maybe it bothered her a lot.

Nyra slid off the bed, crossed to the thermostat, and popped the service panel open with the edge of a stolen scalpel from Mateo's kit.

"Sorry, doc," she whispered. "You seemed like you'd understand crimes for family."

The wiring inside was clean, labeled, and expensive.

Adorable.

She bypassed the sensor lock in under four minutes.

The door clicked.

Nyra smiled.

"Patchwork Queen, one. Emotionally constipated murder hotel, zero."

The hallway outside was dim, lit by recessed blue strips along the floor. No alarms. No shouting. No Ghost materializing from the shadows like trauma in tactical boots.

Good.

She moved barefoot, because boots made noise and because she refused to let a possibly fractured toe ruin her evening.

The safehouse layout mapped itself in her head as she walked.

Armory to the left.

Med bay behind reinforced glass.

Interrogation room at the far end, guarded by a camera and a biometric lock.

Razor was inside there.

Alive.

For now.

Nyra's fingers curled.

Milo wasn't carrying cargo.

He was carrying a person.

The sentence had been eating through her skull for hours.

A person.

Who?

Why?

Alive?

Dead?

A witness? A prisoner? A child? Someone Hollow Sun needed moved quietly enough to erase every record afterward?

And why had Ghost gone still when Razor said it?

Nyra found the operations room by accident.

Or maybe not accident.

The door had no handle. Just a keypad and a fingerprint scanner.

She almost laughed.

"Men really do love making things dramatic."

The scanner took longer.

Eight minutes.

A wire from the thermostat. A foil strip from a protein bar wrapper. A smear of conductive gel from Mateo's supply drawer. Ugly work.

Effective work.

The panel flashed green.

Nyra slipped inside.

The room opened wide and cold around her.

Screens covered one wall. Maps of Los Angeles glowed in layered grids. Live traffic feeds, surveillance loops, encrypted channels, heat signatures.

A central table held tablets, weapons parts, satellite phones, and a half-empty mug of black coffee.

Ghost's, she knew immediately.

No sugar. No cream. No joy.

Nyra ignored the weird little pinch that came from recognizing his habits.

She dropped into the nearest chair and woke the terminal.

Password required.

Obviously.

Lucas's system, judging by the custom interface and smug little animated skull in the corner.

Nyra cracked her knuckles.

"Let's see if pretty cyber criminals are as clever as they think."

They were.

Annoyingly.

The first firewall bit back. The second rerouted her into a sandbox. The third tried to lock the station remotely.

Nyra leaned closer, pulse climbing.

"No, no, no. Don't be cute."

She didn't need full access.

Just search fragments.

Convoy.

Milo Quinn.

Hollow Sun.

Route.

Person.

The system resisted.

Nyra forced it sideways.

Lines of data spilled across the screen.

Most were redacted.

Some were decoys.

Then one file header appeared before the system tried to bury it again.

CONVOY 19-B // HOLLOW SUN TRANSFER

Nyra's breath stopped.

Her hand hovered over the keyboard.

She opened it.

The screen flashed black.

Then populated in broken pieces.

Date.

Two years ago.

Route: Port of Los Angeles to Mojave transfer corridor.

Driver roster: redacted.

Secondary vehicle: redacted.

Cargo classification: biological asset.

Nyra's stomach turned.

Biological asset.

Not person.

Asset.

She scrolled faster.

Escort team: BLACK VEIL subcontract support.

Her vision narrowed.

BLACK VEIL.

No.

No, no, no.

She searched within the file for Milo's name.

Nothing.

She tried Quinn.

Nothing.

She tried his old street alias.

MILLS.

The system paused.

Then one line appeared.

CIVILIAN DRIVER: M. QUINN — STATUS: UNCONFIRMED

The room tilted.

Nyra gripped the edge of the desk until her taped ribs screamed.

Unconfirmed.

Not dead.

Not alive.

Not anything.

Just a bureaucratic shrug over the only person she had left.

She scrolled again.

There was a photo attachment.

Corrupted.

She opened it anyway.

The image loaded in gray blocks first.

Then color.

A desert road at night.

A burning transport van.

Bodies on the ground.

A young man near the driver's side, face turned away, dark hair lit by fire.

Milo.

Nyra made a sound she did not recognize.

Small.

Broken.

Gone before she could stop it.

The door behind her opened.

She didn't turn.

She couldn't.

Ghost's voice came from the threshold.

"Step away from the terminal."

Nyra stared at the screen.

Her brother stared away from her through smoke and pixels.

"No."

Ghost entered the room.

The door sealed behind him.

No alarm.

No team.

Just him.

Of course he had come alone.

"You triggered three internal warnings," he said.

"Then your system is slow."

"You broke into a classified database."

"Guess it's YOU kidnapped me into a building full of answers."

"This isn't your war."

Nyra turned then.

Too fast.

Pain cracked through her ribs, but she welcomed it. Pain was better than the sick cold spreading under her skin.

"My brother is in your file."

Ghost went silent.

Not surprised.

That was the worst part.