Frank woke up before dawn, restless but sharpened. His mind was no longer wandering—it was focused. The napkin's words had already carved themselves into him: "Never get out of the fight. Be ready for a mission."
So he trained. A five-mile run along Draeton's gray streets. Pushups, pull-ups, squats—every motion deliberate, every breath a reminder that his body was a weapon that couldn't afford to rust. Afterward, he stood under the shower until the steam turned his reflection into a ghost.
He made himself a clean breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee. He ate without taste, his thoughts already at the department.
By 9:00 a.m., Frank was dressed, ID clipped to his belt, weapon holstered, the sharpness in his eyes unmistakable. He logged into the DPD system and began combing through cybercrime files, trying to anticipate where the next storm would break. Nothing yet. Just fragments. But his instincts whispered: something large-scale was coming.
