The air in Casablanca was thick—heavy with roasting spices, sea salt, and heat that clung to the skin.
But for the first time in three weeks, the Queens Fire in my chest wasn't warmth.
It was a warning.
Cold.
Sharp.
Precise.
I sat at the small café table, fingers hovering over the encrypted keys of my laptop. The screen glowed softly—harmless to anyone else.
Not to me.
Because at the far edge of the global server map—
a single red pixel flickered.
Once.
Twice.
A whisper in a system designed to scream.
My pulse stuttered.
Not random.
Not noise.
A signature.
Clean. Surgical. Intentional.
The kind of digital footprint only one man in the world could leave.
"He found us," I whispered.
Across the café, Julian froze mid-sentence, a piece of woven fabric still in his hands as he argued with the vendor. Slowly, he turned, his expression shifting from confusion to alarm.
