Morning didn't feel like relief.
It felt like exposure.
Light slipped through the curtains, sharp and unforgiving, pulling me out of a sleep that never really happened. My body felt heavy, but my mind was already awake, already running through everything from the night before.
The door.
His voice.
The way he looked at me like he already knew something was wrong.
"You ask questions your sister never did."
That line stayed with me.
Not because of what it said.
But because of what it meant.
He knew her.
Not casually.
Not distantly.
Closely enough to notice the difference.
I sat up slowly, pressing my hand against my forehead as I tried to steady my thoughts. This wasn't just about pretending anymore. This wasn't just about finding my sister.
I was already inside something structured.
Controlled.
And I had no idea where the edges were.
A tray of food sat near the window.
Untouched.
Perfectly arranged.
I stared at it for a moment.
Then looked away.
Nothing in this house felt natural.
Even something as simple as breakfast looked like it had been placed there with intention.
Which meant one thing.
Someone was always watching.
My chest tightened at the thought, but I pushed it aside.
Fear wasn't useful right now.
Information was.
She worked here.
That thought came back stronger this time.
Not as a guest.
Not as someone invited into this world.
But as part of it.
Which meant she had access.
And if she had access—
She left something behind.
I stood up quickly.
No hesitation this time.
If I kept waiting, I would lose whatever advantage I had left.
The hallway was just as quiet as before, but now I understood it differently. It wasn't empty. It wasn't peaceful.
It was controlled silence.
I moved with purpose, retracing the path from the night before. Every turn, every corner, every shift in space felt more familiar now.
But I didn't go to the locked door.
Not yet.
That wasn't the starting point.
Something else was.
A smaller section of the house.
Glass walls.
Minimal design.
An office.
I stopped just outside the door, my pulse picking up.
This wasn't decoration.
This was access.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, more carefully this time.
The system was already on.
I froze.
That wasn't normal.
Either someone had just been here…
Or someone wanted me to believe they had.
Neither option made me feel better.
I moved closer to the desk, my eyes scanning everything in quick, controlled movements.
No panic.
No wasted motion.
Think like her.
If she worked here, she would have patterns.
Shortcuts.
Places she used more than others.
I opened the first drawer.
Empty.
Second.
Nothing.
Third—
A small notepad.
My fingers tightened slightly as I picked it up.
Most of the pages were blank.
Except one.
Six digits.
No label.
No explanation.
Just numbers.
My breath slowed as I turned toward the system.
If this was hers…
Then this was intentional.
I entered the code.
Access granted.
Too easy.
That wasn't relief.
That was a problem.
The screen opened into multiple folders.
Cleanly organized.
Structured.
Not random.
Nothing here was random.
I didn't scroll blindly.
I searched.
And then I saw it.
Restricted Authorization
My chest tightened instantly.
That wasn't something you named casually.
I clicked it.
The document loaded slowly, each second stretching longer than it should have.
Legal terms.
Technical language.
Approvals.
At first glance, it looked like something meant to confuse.
Something meant to hide behind complexity.
But then—
One line stood out.
Safety Override Approved
My fingers tightened on the desk.
Scroll.
Date.
Location.
And then—
My breath stopped.
My father's workplace.
No.
That wasn't possible.
That couldn't be connected.
But it was.
I kept scrolling, my movements slower now, more careful.
At the bottom—
Access log.
And there it was.
My sister's name.
Not once.
Multiple times.
She didn't just see this.
She came back to it.
Again.
And again.
A sound behind me.
Soft.
Controlled.
I didn't need to turn to know who it was.
But I did anyway.
Adrian Cole stood at the door.
Watching.
Not surprised.
Not angry.
Just… aware.
And somehow—
That was worse.