a neat, tragic story. But i

, detached and lost, was not extinguished. It was... freed. I was no longer Gabi Jenkins, the

rother, Andrew, punch him until his knuckles were bloody and Ethan's face was a ruin. Ethan di

, not satisfaction. Just

at the base of the oldest tree, its branches reaching for the sky like ancient arms. My people gathered, their faces etched with sorrow. As the last handful of d

I was drawn ba

survived the fire-the cellar where I had died. He was a ghost, just like me. He didn't speak. H

ting away. His men, the ones who ha

gotta eat

is asking what

the four damp walls of that cellar and

r it to himself

light, blinking like a creature that hadn't seen the sun in years. He we

nse reports, internal communications. He was methodical, his grief channeled into a cold, sharp foc

"rescued." The network of shell companies Nikki used to funnel money and hide her tracks. It was all there. She hadn'

s. He sent encrypted files to journa

went aft

. He used the corporation's own vast surveillance network to track her. He found her holed up in a luxury safe hou

ld contact from his activist days, a man w

n said, his voice devoid of

e was a machine of vengeance. There was no pleasure in it for him. It