–Jane–
I wore another woman's face tonight.
Larissa Laurent—one of the agents assigned to the Paris lair case. I studied her for hours: the cadence of her speech, the lazy confidence in her walk, the way her fingers hovered before touching anything, as if everything offended her. It wasn't perfect, but perfection isn't required. Only believability—for a few minutes.
They were keeping the real Larissa alive. Sedated. Quiet. Useful.
The air inside the lair still smelled of scorched plastic and ionized metal. The server room had taken the blast hard. I slipped on gloves and walked toward the wreckage, boots crunching softly against debris. I opened each server casing with methodical calm.
Toast.
Burned clean through.
Data reduced to carbon and regret.
Beyond repair. Beyond recovery.
I removed several drives anyway—habit, not hope—and sealed them inside a ziplock bag. Redundancy is survival. Then I glanced up, locating the hidden camera. Still active. Still watching.
Good.
