The soft hum of activity at O’Hare Airport surrounds them like white noise, a blend of distant announcements, rolling luggage wheels, and travel-weary voices. Anna reclines across the stiff airport seats, her head resting on Phara’s lap, her red curls spilling like ink against the deep blue of her lover’s jeans. Her legs drape casually over Theodore’s lap, jostling his laptop as he types furiously, fingers like dancers performing an intricate choreography on the keyboard.
Phara’s focus, however, remains on her cellphone, her brows furrowed in concentration. The screen casts a pale glow onto her face, illuminating deep lines of thought as she scrolls through an endless sea of headlines. The tension in her shoulders is palpable, a tight coil of quiet determination. Anna shifts slightly, her gaze flicking from Theodore’s focused expression to Phara’s unwavering attention on the device.
A male reporter’s voice echoes from the video on Phara’s phone, sharp against the blurred background of travelers bustling around them. “Today marks the final nail in the coffin for Whitefield Cosmetics,” he announces, each word steeped in drama. “Melissa Whitefield, daughter of Alexander Whitefield and CEO of the company, was arrested earlier today. The charges are nothing short of horrifying—abduction and illegal experiments conducted on her unsuspecting victims.” A collective murmur from the surrounding cafe tables rolls over them, but the trio appears insulated from the chaos, locked in their own world.
Anna's eyes narrow slightly, her curiosity piqued as she takes in the intensity of Phara’s expression. “You’ve been scrolling through those news feeds for hours now.” Her voice is light, almost teasing, but with an unmistakable note of concern. “What exactly are you looking for?”
Phara doesn’t look away from her screen immediately, her thumb streaking across the surface of her phone as if she could somehow uncover answers faster. Her answer comes quietly, tinged with a hint of impatience as though she’s reasoning this out to herself more than to Anna. “I was hoping one of these reports would mention who solved the case.”
Anna reaches up and brushes her fingertips against Phara’s cheek, her touch grounding, gentle. Her voice softens, becoming the steady pulse within their triad. “You know they won’t mention us. They’ll just give the credit to local law enforcement, like always.”
Theodore barely looks up, his blue-gray eyes glued to the cascade of technical jargon filling his laptop screen. The rhythm of his typing continues, broken only by his calm, assured voice. “She’s right,” he murmurs in agreement, his tone as dry as the pages of a case file.
The weight of their handiwork hangs heavy between them, unacknowledged in the headlines Phara scrolls through. The world moves on around them, oblivious to the trio's role in putting to rest yet another chilling mystery, while the sting of anonymity bites at Phara’s pride. Morning light filters through the high glass windows and spills around them, unfeeling and indifferent.
Phara’s focus is sharp, her dark eyes glued to the screen of her phone, where a news report plays in a steady stream. The male reporter’s voice is smooth but urgent, delivering a message that seems to weigh heavier with each word. “Local law enforcement gave a statement, saying they have been working on this case for months.”
Anna’s lips curve into a sly smile as she props herself up slightly, giving Phara a knowing look. “See? I told you, here it is.”
Phara’s lips press together, her eyebrows furrowing as she waves a dismissive hand in the air without breaking concentration. “Let me watch,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but authoritative.
The intercom clicks on, static buzzing briefly before the announcement booms over the terminal. “Flight 1776 to Boston is now boarding. All passengers, please proceed to Gate C12.”
Anna sighs, swinging her legs off Theodore’s lap and rising to grab her bag. She slings Phara’s streamlined carry-on over her shoulder, her movements quick and practiced, the kind shaped by endless flights and layovers. “Come on,” Theodore says, already ahead of them, his voice carrying effortlessly over the background noise. He glances over his shoulder, gesturing toward them with one hand. “We’re boarding.”
“Just a minute,” Phara replies, her eyes still pinned to the video playing on her screen. As streams of people weave past, rushing to their respective destinations, Anna steps closer, her curiosity piqued. She leans over Phara’s shoulder, straining to catch the latest development unveiled through the sleek device.
The voice of the reporter shifts to a new, breathless update. “This just in: Local law enforcement has confirmed that it was a small investigative team from Boston—informally known as Phara’s team—that offered the key breakthrough helping solve this baffling case. Hats off to Phara’s Investigative team!”
Anna freezes, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes widen as the words register, and she blurts out, “Holy shit, Phara—you were right.”
Theodore chuckles as he adjusts his bag, smirking. “She’s rarely wrong.”
Phara finally glances up from her screen, an almost uncanny calm radiating from her features despite the subtle glimmer of pride glowing in her eyes. The corners of her mouth tug into a small, knowing smile as she rises from her seat. “Let’s go, then,” she says, her voice as smooth and collected as ever. Striding toward the gate alongside Anna and Theodore, she adds, “I can’t wait to get home and check our emails.”
Behind them, the hum of the airport buzzes like a restless hive, never quite falling silent. Conversations blend with the clatter of suitcases, a symphony of departures and arrivals. The scent of jet fuel lingers in the air, sharp and synthetic, mixing with the faint aroma of overpriced coffee from the terminal. The plane looms large nearby, its white fuselage gleaming under the bright glare of halogen lights, waiting to carry them back to Boston.
Anna trails behind Phara and Theodore, her steps careful and deliberate, as if each footfall could somehow rewrite the course of their journey. The cold metal steps leading up to the aircraft chill her fingertips as she brushes them lightly to steady herself. Inside, the cabin hums with soft murmurs and the occasional rattle of an overhead compartment being shut. The faint antiseptic smell of recycled air blends awkwardly with the faint scent of perfume from a fellow passenger.
The three find their seats in silence. Phara sinks into hers with a subtle tension in her shoulders, her gaze sharp, scanning faces, movements, details—always vigilant. Theodore settles beside her, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest, betraying his effort to appear calm. Anna slides into the window seat, pressing closer to the pane with the urgency of someone wishing to be anywhere but trapped inside this small capsule of strangers and expectation.
The engines growl their awakening, vibrating through the cabin walls and the soles of their shoes. Anna casts one last fleeting glance at the ground shrinking below, the runway streaking into the distance as the plane lifts its body into the sky. A sharp inhale betrays her unease, but she says nothing. Phara’s knuckles whiten as her nails dig into the leather of her seat, and Theodore whispers something vague—meant to calm, but fading useless into the roar of ascent.
Boston waits for them, familiar yet tangled in layers of memory and mystery. The worn streets, the stoic buildings—places they know, yet every shadow there threatens to take on new shapes upon their return.
***
The plane descends smoothly, gliding through the clouds as the bustling city of Boston spreads out like a patchwork quilt below. The gentle thud of landing jolts the three passengers from their momentary peace. Phara bolts upright, her eyes slicing through the window as the plane inches toward the gleaming terminal. The buzz of engines fills the air, mingled with the chatter of fellow passengers and the sterile hum of the cabin, but Phara’s focus is singular, charged with restless energy as if her seat is burning beneath her.
"Wake up, we’re home!" she exclaims, her voice sharp and urgent as she leans over Anna, her presence obstructing any remaining semblance of personal space. Her dark curls sway as she peers over her sleeping companion to glimpse the outside world like it holds secrets she’s been aching to uncover.
Anna groans softly and stretches, her arms brushing against Phara’s. Her eyelids flutter open, hazy with exhaustion and a fading dream. “Why are you standing? We’re not going anywhere yet,” Anna mutters, her tone somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
Flipping her hand dismissively, Theodore shifts in his seat, the grogginess in his face giving way to a familiar calm. Adjusting his glasses, he murmurs pragmatically, “You do realize it’ll be at least twenty minutes before we’re actually off this plane, right?”
Phara sighs dramatically but slides back into her seat between them, her foot tapping against the carpeted floor in an impatient rhythm. “This is going to be amazing,” she says, gripping their arms with an iron resolve. Her eyes light up, a mischievous fire dancing in her gaze. “With the new hires on board, we can finally rent that apartment across from ours. You know, the one with the sunny windows and all that charm?”
Anna raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a half-smile. “That’s my storage space,” she replies dryly, a teasing edge in her tone.
Theodore turns to Phara and narrows his eyes in feigned judgment. “Do you really need an entire collection of old newspapers to clutter up your precious new real estate?” He smirks. “What, is that your version of interior design?”
Before Phara can summon a snippy reply, her phone vibrates against the armrest. She snatches it up in one swift motion, her sharp nails clicking against the screen as she unlocks it. Her expression transforms in an instant, dread melting away as an intrigued smile starts to curve her lips.
“Oh, this is good,” she says, almost to herself. Her voice is laced with that distinct edge of excitement, the spark that only comes when a new case is waiting to be unraveled. She tilts the screen slightly, scanning the cryptic details in bold black letters beneath a subject line.
Anna, wide-eyed now, leans in to catch a glimpse. “What’s it about?” Her curiosity blooms, breaking her exhaustion like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.
“Nothing boring,” Phara assures her, her grin widening. She squeezes Theodore’s shoulder lightly and her gaze sharpens. “This is going to keep all of us on our toes.”
The plane exhales a breath of relief as it inches toward the terminal, its engines quieting to a low rumble. The rhythmic vibration beneath Phara’s feet only serves to stir her thoughts into a frenzy. Her pulse beats in tandem with her mind as she puzzles over the threads of a mystery that feels like it’s already stretching its claws toward them. Through the window, the city rises on the horizon, its jagged skyline cutting against the burnished, sinking sun. Twilight’s shadows slink across glass and steel, spilling secrets with each narrow beam of light. Phara grips the edge of her seat with anticipation, knowing that as soon as the wheels hit the tarmac, their sprint begins—not just to unpack but toward unraveling yet another tangled case.
Theodore steps off the plane first, a breath of cool air brushing his face. He pauses, lowering his bag by his side, and says, “Nothing like Boston,” as if the air itself is charged with a distinct energy that only he can sense. Phara adjusts her scarf, closes her eyes for just a moment, and lets the ambiance of the city seep into her bones. There’s something in the air—an invisible thread of intrigue waiting just past their fingertips. Anna trails close behind, her expression sharp but calm.
At baggage claim, the trio huddles together in focused silence, the carousel humming and groaning as it spits out luggage piece by piece. Tedious moments stretch thin as they collect their bags and navigate their way through the evening crowd. By the time they emerge into the sharp golden hue of streetlights, a cab sharply pulls up to meet them, making the squeal of tires echo faintly in the surrounding haze. Boston envelopes them like a familiar, murky embrace, comforting and thrilling all at once.
The ride downtown hums with a quiet intensity as they each gain their bearings, thoughts swirling and twisting with plans, theories, and loose ends. Phara presses her forehead to the window’s chilled glass, her gaze flicking to the thrumming expanse of city streets illuminated by neon signs and restless headlights. Her reflection stares back, her eyes wide and contemplative. “We’re home,” she murmurs as their cab pulls to a stop in front of their apartment building—a sturdy, imposing structure that rises tall and stoic as if it has secrets of its own. The mirrored glass glints faintly against its neighbor, the office building where their private investigative team operates nightly.
Without hesitation, Anna hurries up the stairs, her boots clicking against the stone steps. Inside, the familiar warmth of home greets them like an old friend. She lets the bags fall from her hands with a soft thump, as though shedding the weight of the journey, and strides into the living room. Theodore and Phara follow her in silence, caught in the magnetism of a new case, a new chaos.
Settling on the couch, Theodore wastes no time; his laptop crackles to life in front of him, spilling white light across his features. His lips curl almost imperceptibly upward as he scans the latest updates. “Wonder if Whitefield Cosmetics has made a statement yet,” he mutters, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of evening traffic outside.
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Phara positions herself in front of her desktop monitor, fingers typing swiftly, lost in the dance between emails and appointments. Anna moves toward her corner, the one she claims as hers every time. She leans back into her favorite chair, watching Phara with an intensity that borders—no, it tips—into admiration. Phara flashes a crooked smile at her. “Anna, we can probably knock out most of these cases in a few days.” Her confidence fills the room in an unspoken promise, like armor being placed around them for the battle only they know is coming.
Anna crosses the room to join her, her grasp light but insistent as she takes Phara’s hand with the familiarity of someone who’s done this a thousand times before. Smirking, she guides Phara onto her lap, a quiet knowing passing between them. Phara idly scrolls down her phone, the cases piling up one by one like snapshots of unsolved puzzles, each laying the groundwork for the web they’ll soon have to untangle.
The light from the screens bathes them in a cold glow, lapping against their faces as they lean close together. Theodore soon abandons his laptop on the couch, striding over with purpose. He hooks one arm over the chair’s armrest and joins in, quiet but not unnoticed, staring at the digital evidence of the cases stacking higher by the minute. A current buzzes in the air between the three—a shared energy linked by danger, resolution, and discovery. It’s a moment fragile enough to break but strong enough to fortify their resolve for the unknown awaiting them.
***
The August morning is unseasonably cool, but the air outside the Chicago courthouse brims with a simmering tension that could boil over at any moment. Reporters swarm the steps like vultures, armed with cameras, microphones, and questions honed to cut. Their voices rise in a chaotic crescendo, microphones jostling in search of the perfect angle. The courthouse looms ahead, its cold stone fa?ade casting long shadows over the crowd.
In the back seat of the unmarked police car, Dr. Specker sits stiffly, the leather seat squeaking ever so slightly as he shifts his weight. The boos are deafening, a thunderous rebuke that makes him wince. He looks through the smudged windows at the frenzied sea of faces and flashes of cameras, his brow furrowed in dismay. He murmurs under his breath, his voice calm yet resolute, “This isn’t necessary.”
The officer in the passenger seat, an older man with a bulldog-like demeanor, turns his head slightly, his mouth set in a grim line. “This is what happens when you break the law,” he says, his tone cutting like glass. “You experiment on innocent people, you psychopath.” His words are laced with venom, as though Dr. Specker’s crimes are a personal affront to him.
Dr. Specker leans forward, his hands cuffed in front of him, the chill of the metal biting into his wrists. He tilts his head, trying to reason through the rising hostility that surrounds him. “I’ve unlocked a way for people to stay forever young,” he says with conviction, his voice a quiet storm. “To not age a single day.”
“Yeah, well,” the officer snaps back, not bothering to turn around this time, “Tell that to the ones who didn’t survive your experiments.”
The car slows as it approaches the courthouse steps. The crowd outside surges closer, reporters shouting questions, their voices bleeding together into an indistinguishable cacophony. A lone figure stands apart from the throng—a young woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, clutching her father’s arm as though tethering herself to reality. Her face is pale, but her eyes burn with intensity. Dr. Specker’s gaze locks onto her as the car stops.
The other officer, a broad-shouldered man who looks like he hasn’t slept in days, speaks up from the driver’s seat. “Orders from the mayor. Wants you paraded through the front entrance. Make an example of you.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but the sheer pettiness of the decision makes Dr. Specker’s lips curl into a sardonic smile.
“Is this wise?” he asks softly, already knowing the answer. A slap of authority echoes inside the vehicle as the passenger cop twists in his seat and barks, “Shut up!”
The doors unlatch, and the officers step out, pulling Dr. Specker with them. His head grazes the top of the door as he emerges, unsteady at first, but his shoulders straighten as though refusing to be cowed by the spectacle. The reporters surge forward like a tidal wave, cameras flashing in a storm of artificial light. Questions—sharp as bullets—are launched in his direction, but Dr. Specker remains mute, his lips pressed into an impenetrable line. His suit, once pristine, is rumpled and flecked with dirt from the previous night’s arrest.
As he’s led forward, the crowd’s hostility morphs into furious chants. Below the noise, Dr. Specker catches sight of Melissa again, steps ahead of him. She appears fragile next to her father, Alexander, whose protective presence looms like a shadow over her. Melissa steals a glance over her shoulder, her pale eyes flicking over Dr. Specker. It’s a fleeting moment, but charged with something unspoken—fear, guilt, maybe even anger.
Dr. Specker’s expression doesn’t falter, though his mind races. He wants to call out to her. He wants to tell her something that might help atone or perhaps explain everything she doesn’t know. But now is not the time. He tightens his jaw, letting his silence speak for him as the courthouse doors yawn open like a mouth hungry for judgment. Inside, justice awaits like a predator, and Dr. Specker steps forward voluntarily towards his arraignment.
Inside the grandeur of the Chicago courtroom, where towering oak walls and flickering fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow, Melissa sits at the defendant's table, her body stiff and betraying the chaos inside. Her hazel eyes dart nervously from her lawyer’s furrowed brow to the cold, menacing presence of Dr. Specker, seated at the distant end of the same table as if even proximity might tie her to his sins.
"This isn’t my fault," Melissa mutters, her voice sharp yet muted, almost as if the weight of guilt and doubt is crushing it. Her trembling hands clench the edge of the table, nails digging in like claws searching for purchase.
"I know you say that," her lawyer replies in measured tones, his gaze fixed on the pile of documents and photographs strewn before him, each one a damning testament to the operation gone terribly wrong. “But the evidence against you is substantial. More than enough to bury you.”
Melissa’s breathing quickens. "I thought—" her voice cracks, and she swallows hard, her throat tightening—"I thought he was going everything by the book."
A deep breath draws the courtroom's silence tighter. Dr. Specker, dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit that conceals a soul drenched in darkness, turns his head sharply. His hollow stare burns into Melissa, cutting through the air like a knife.
"Stop lying," he snarls, his voice cold and venomous, reverberating through the courtroom like the growl of some unseen predator. "You were in charge of this entire operation."
Gasps ripple in the gallery behind the defendants, sounding like ghosts of judgment whispering into the ears of those present. Melissa flinches, her shoulder dipping slightly as though his words physically struck her.
Dr. Specker's lawyer, a harried man with wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose, leans toward his client as if attempting to corral his fury. “Don’t speak to her,” he hisses under his breath, his tone driven by the weight of an already precarious case. “It will not help your situation.”
Despite the carnage of accusations and tension swirling around her, Melissa seems oblivious to the advice of her own counsel. Her whispers grow frantic. "This isn't me. It's everyone else. I told them—I swear I told them not to do it like this." Her pleas tumble out like broken glass, sharp and desperate, but scatter uselessly across the room.
At that moment, the sound of the heavy oak doors opening slices through the chaos. The occupants of the courtroom instinctively stand as the Judge enters, his robes flowing like an ominous omen. He ascends to the bench with a practiced ease, his stern gaze sweeping over the defendants, his expression an unreadable mask.
“Good morning,” the Judge says, his voice carrying the weight of authority and finality, something that stirs unease as it fills every corner of the room. There’s a heavy pause, the kind that demands submission, before he speaks again. “How do the defendants plead?”
The room holds its breath. Melissa’s lawyer, still fiddling with the scattered papers of evidence, rises to his feet, his shoulders squared but heavy. “Not guilty,” he declares, though the words seem to tremble under scrutiny.
Dr. Specker’s lawyer follows suit, his voice firmer, entirely devoid of hesitation, as he mirrors, “Not guilty.”
Melissa steals another glance at Dr. Specker. His jaw tightens, his expression unreadable, layers of animosity carefully concealed behind an elegant veneer. She fights an urge to speak, knowing her lawyer would scold her later, but the words scream in her head: This isn’t my fault. It was never supposed to happen.
Overhead, the courtroom’s fluorescent light flickers—a stuttering protest against the tension building in the room. No one seems to notice. But Melissa does. And for a fleeting second, her gaze flicks to the shadow shifting underneath the Judge’s desk. It looks wrong—too thick—too alive. She blinks, her breath catching in her throat, but when she looks again, it's gone.
Her pulse quickens. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s paranoia. Or maybe, she thinks, something else entirely is watching.
The trial settles into motion, but Melissa presses her trembling palms against the cool, unyielding surface of the table, her lawyer whispering strategies she barely hears. Through the maze of legal arguments and witness testimonies, she can’t shake a sensation clawing at her chest—a feeling that the filter of reality itself has begun to twist in ways she cannot comprehend. Something malevolent lingers, unseen, in the air of that courtroom.
***
The airport hangar hums with faint echoes of machinery and the distant roar of incoming flights. Overhead, the cold fluorescents cast sharp shadows against the concrete floor, fragments of light dancing on slick oil stains. A group of men, dressed in drab work uniforms, maneuver a long, ebony coffin on a wheeled platform, its dark surface polished to a shine that gleams like onyx. It is silent, yet heavy with the promise of secrets. Beside them walks Norika, her expression steely, her sharp eyes unwavering even as her hand brushes the edges of the compact cargo plane.
She evaluates the men carefully, gauging their worth and loyalty with a single glance. With swift movements, she retrieves a thick envelope from her coat and passes it to their foreman. He peers in and nods, his crew dispersing quickly after tightening the coffin’s straps to secure it in the plane's underbelly. The silence returns, heavier now with absence, the only sound remaining the faint creak of the hangar doors threatening to shut against an airless night.
Norika stands still for a moment, her leather gloves curling into her palm. Then she steps into the plane, inspecting the coffin one last time, her hand resting gently yet firmly against its sleek surface. "I am not going anywhere this time," Norika murmurs, her voice unwavering but low enough to barely stir her breath in the frigid air.
From within the coffin, Anastasia stirs, her voice muffled but clear enough to reach Norika. "Norika, thank you for being here."
The connection between them hangs in the air, delicate yet intimate, like the buzz of static. Inside, Anastasia shifts, her form curled tightly beneath layers of crimson silk and velvet inside the coffin's opulent interior. Her pale fingers grip a sleek smartphone, the blue glow reflecting off her gaunt face.
She opens her photo gallery. The images of her and Dalilah flash before her eyes—smiles stolen across moonlit streets, fingers entwined, promises sealed without words. But now, they feel foreign and cruel, each pixel a lie thorned with betrayal. Anastasia’s voice cracks faintly in the silence. “Why would she use me like that?”
As she swipes through the photos one last time, her thin breaths weave their way through the hollow darkness. Her thumb hovers over the delete button, trembling, before she presses firmly. One picture vanishes, then the next, then all of them, erased like fleeting specters in the digital ether.
The plane trembles as it begins to move, a deep rumble flooding the cabin. Norika focuses on the controls methodically, each movement precise. The engine whines in protest before roaring toward ascension. The coffin shifts slightly as the plane tilts upward, Anastasia flinching at the unseen sensation of speed and weightlessness.
She tucks her phone away and closes her eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Beneath her eyelids, she sees Dalilah—her wife, her muse, her heart, the one who vanished with the coven like smoke in the wind. Anger churns in her ribcage, lively and sharp, but exhaustion carries heavier chains.
Norika glances back briefly, her gaze settling on the coffin as though sensing Anastasia's tormented thoughts. Her fingers stay firm on the controls, her movements steady, her presence grounding. For both of them, the day stretches long ahead, the journey to Boston veiling whatever awaits them in the unknown.
The sun dips below the horizon, the sky painted in hues of violet and deep orange, when Norika’s cargo plane touches down at Boston Airport. The growl of engines rises and then subsides as she expertly maneuvers the massive aircraft into the cavernous hanger, its steel walls gleaming faintly under the stark fluorescent lights. The air smells of jet fuel and damp metal, mingling with the faint tang of salt from the nearby harbor.
Norika steps down from the cockpit, her boots echoing sharply against the polished concrete floor. Dressed in a leather flight jacket that seems to have seen its fair share of rough skies, she moves with the confidence of someone used to being the sole master of her craft. Her raven-black hair, tied tightly at the nape of her neck, gleams under the sterile light as she strides towards the hanger’s owner. He’s an older man, his face weathered like driftwood, with silver wisps of hair barely clinging to his scalp. He nods lightly when she reaches him, his expression a blend of calm professionalism and cautious respect.
“Charge my father’s account,” Norika says firmly, her voice cutting through the quiet din of nearby machinery.
“Yes, Miss Meiji.” He regards her thoughtfully for a moment, then raises one thinning brow. “How long will you be renting this hanger?”
Norika’s lips curve into a faint, controlled smile. “Let’s sign a year lease to start.”
The man doesn’t waste time. From some unseen pocket, he produces a sleek tablet and begins tapping at the screen. The glow of the display dances across his lined face as Norika leans over and signs with a quick swipe of her finger. Her signature is precise, as if every flick of the stylus is as deliberate as her flying.
The neat clip of tires on the pavement outside draws Norika’s attention, her head turning sharply toward the open hanger doors. A sleek black car glides into view, its glossy surface reflecting the fading light. The vehicle comes to a halt, and the doors silently open. Phara steps out first, her tailored black coat shifting softly around her lithe frame. Her curls frame a serene, calculating face. Behind her, a tall man—Theodore—emerges, his strong jawline shadowed slightly by dark stubble. He towers over her, his expression calm yet distant, like a figure carved from stone.
Norika wastes no time. She crosses the expanse of the hanger floor in quick strides, her boots scuffing against the smooth surface as she approaches them. Her dark eyes, sharp and smoldering with unspoken urgency, fix on Phara’s gaze like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.
“Where is Anna?” she demands, her words clipped, but laced with worry.
Phara glances at Theodore, and they exchange a silent communication in the span of a breath. Theodore’s lips press into a firm line, but Phara breaks the gaze first. Turning back toward Norika, she tilts her head slightly, her voice calm but weighed with something left unsaid.
“We haven’t told her yet,” Phara admits, folding her arms across her chest like she’s shielding herself from the conversation. “But she does know we’ve added more team members.”
Norika exhales sharply, her chest heaving, as tension twists across her face like storm clouds. “We have to record her reaction,” she states, her tone demanding, but not unkind. A flicker of something—fear, perhaps—flashes behind her controlled demeanor.
Phara, unruffled, offers a small nod, her voice steady. “With Anastasia’s connections, we’ll have enough work.”
She says this as though it’s the answer to everything, a salve for Norika’s taut nerves. But Norika’s gaze remains fixed on Phara, her mind racing far beyond the scope of logistics or contracts. Something visceral churns beneath her composed mask, something sharp and restless, threatening to bubble to the surface.
