A few minutes before
Miles leaned against the edge of the table, folder open before him. His fingers tapped once against the woman's blurred photograph.
"Anything about who's leading them?"
Monica hesitated. "The prisoner mentioned a woman. He wasn't sure if she's the real leader, but… they called her 'Princess.'" She slid a printout across the table. "Look at this image. Her face isn't visible. That's pretty much all we've got."
Miles stared at the photo, his eyes narrowing as he tried to piece together fragments of features—jawline, posture, the angle of her neck.
"So you're saying," he murmured, "if there's a Princess… there might be a King or Queen as well."
Monica gave a small shrug. "Just a guess."
Miles stayed quiet, his thumb pressing against the blurred photo, mind already spinning through possibilities.
---
Present
When Monica returned from the call, Miles was still standing by the window, shoulders rigid, the storm already visible on his face.
