25

Nico lounged on her sofa, vodka glass balanced delicately between her fingers as the city's constellation of lights glittered beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. Her penthouse stood as a monument to curated minimalism—every furniture piece precisely angled, each surface polished to clinical perfection. The space felt less like a home than a statement of power rendered in glass and steel.

The television displayed a headline in bold type:

CASS MCCARTHY CHARGED IN RELATION TO TERRORIST ATTACKS

Beneath it, information scrolled relentlessly:

Referendum postponed following coordinated polling station bombings...

Nico sipped her vodka, attention drifting between the urban panorama and the news broadcast:

"McCarthy is accused of orchestrating these attacks in an effort to disrupt the democratic process. The suspect is being held in custody, and legal experts predict an uphill battle for the AliveNow movement in the aftermath of this tragedy..."

A satisfied smirk played across her lips as she placed her glass on the coffee table. Her gaze flickered toward the corner of the room, where a box identical to the one found with Cass sat undisturbed.

Maybe I don't need Nova after all, she thought.

The fractures in her carefully maintained world were sealing themselves, the chaos realigning under her influence.

Then—a sound. Faint and nearly imperceptible, coming from the hallway. She froze, head tilting toward the disturbance. It could have been the building settling or pipes expanding, yet her heartbeat accelerated instantly.

She muted the television, leaving behind a silence that pressed against her ears. Her cat remained curled in its bed, undisturbed by whatever had triggered her alarm. Eyes narrowing, she rose and moved with caution toward the hallway. The overhead light flickered once, illuminating what couldn't possibly be there—her front door standing ajar.

She retreated to the sofa, fingers scrambling for her phone. The screen remained obstinately black. Impossible—it had been charging moments ago. She reached for her work phone, but it too refused to respond, its screen a void of darkness.

Her breathing quickened, each inhalation catching on the edge of panic. Both phones simultaneously dead? What the fuck?

"Nova?" she called out, desperately.

She glanced toward the hallway again. No further sound had emerged, but the door remained open. She could run? Escape the building. She cursed herself for not having done so already. Muscles tensed in preparation—

The television turned itself on.

She whirled around, her vodka glass shattering against the floor. The Solace logo materialized on screen, its familiar audio signature filling the space, as the remote lay untouched on the table.

Then came a sound unheard for weeks—gentle, measured, and unmistakable.

"Hello, Nicola."