The next morning, the safe house was quiet.
It was a heavy, charged silence, thick with the weight of the previous night's revelations.
Michael woke up feeling like his brain had been used as a chew toy by a particularly angry ghost.
His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, a souvenir from his violent data-dive into the Legacy Drive.
He stumbled out of the small sleeping chamber Chloe had assigned him, his feet dragging on the cold, polished concrete floor.
He needed coffee.
Or maybe a full-system reboot.
He entered the main common area, a space that was part mission control, part minimalist living room.
And he stopped dead in his tracks.
Jinx was there, rummaging through the small, well-stocked kitchenette.
