Dayo read the headlines over coffee and felt something he had not felt in months.
Not anxiety. Not the tight-chested vigilance that had become his default since Michael first showed him the photograph of Luna and Jennifer. Not the calculating coldness he wore in meetings with Felix, in calls with the old man, in the small hours when he stared at server room screens and tried to read patterns in green text.
Joy. Simple and dark and completely uncomplicated.
