"Motherfucker."
The word escaped my lips in a shocked whisper as I stared at the screen. Next to me, Dominic leaned closer, his body tensing as he scanned the document I'd just opened.
"Is that—"
"Senator Williams," I confirmed, scrolling through the damning evidence. "Head of the fucking Intelligence Committee."
We'd been huddled in the tiny cabin of our stolen fishing boat for hours, working our way through Petrov's ledger. Dawn was breaking outside, pale light filtering through the small windows as we pushed farther east across Lake Superior toward Quebec. The helicopter we'd heard earlier hadn't materialized, but that didn't mean we weren't being hunted.
The ledger was proving to be far more explosive than either of us had anticipated. Not just compromised officials—the entire goddamn system was infected.
"Look at the payment history," Dominic pointed at the screen. "Monthly deposits dating back seven years. And these meetings..." His finger traced the timeline of private encounters between the Senator and Petrov's operatives.
My stomach churned. "He's the one who pushed for those defense contracts last year. The ones that gave Russian shell companies access to classified weapons systems."
"And he's on the committee investigating Russian influence." Dominic's voice carried a rare note of genuine shock. "This goes beyond corruption, Val. This is fucking treason."
I rubbed my eyes, fighting exhaustion and the building migraine throbbing at my temples. We'd been going through files all night, each revelation more disturbing than the last. Judges, generals, corporate executives—all in Petrov's pocket.
"The question is, what do we do with this?" I gestured at the screen. "If we send it to the FBI, how do we know it won't be intercepted by one of Petrov's people?"
Dominic closed the laptop, plunging us into relative darkness. The only light came from the dim glow of dawn and the small kerosene lamp swinging gently with the boat's motion.
"We need to be strategic." His voice was steady, the shock giving way to his natural analytical approach. "Sending everything at once would be chaotic. The evidence would get buried, discredited, or worse."
"So we release it piecemeal?" I suggested. "Target specific networks or agencies?"
"Exactly." He moved to check our position on the navigation system. "We pick the cleanest outlets we can find and feed them verified information, bit by bit. Create a cascade effect they can't contain."
I watched him work, admiring the calm efficiency of his movements despite our dire circumstances. His shoulder was still bothering him—I could tell from the slight stiffness in his posture—but he hadn't complained once.
"How much longer to Quebec?" I asked, stretching to relieve the stiffness in my back.
"At this rate, we'll reach the provincial border by nightfall. Then another day to reach the safe house." He adjusted our course slightly. "Assuming the weather holds and we don't run into any of Petrov's search parties."
I nodded, moving to stand beside him. Our bodies naturally aligned, his arm slipping around my waist as I leaned against him. These small moments of contact had become precious, grounding us amid the chaos.
"You need sleep," he murmured, his breath warm against my hair.
"So do you."
"I'll take first watch. You get some rest." His tone brooked no argument. "We need at least one of us functioning at full capacity."
I was too exhausted to protest. The tiny berth in the cabin wasn't comfortable by any standard, but after the past twenty-four hours, it looked like heaven.
"Wake me in four hours," I insisted, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. "No hero shit, Castellano. You need rest too."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Yes, ma'am."
I collapsed onto the narrow bunk, not bothering to remove my boots. Sleep claimed me almost instantly, dragging me into blessed darkness.
* * *
I woke to silence. Complete, absolute silence.
No engine hum. No water lapping against the hull. No wind.
My eyes snapped open, body instantly alert. The cabin was dark except for the faint glow of emergency lights. I reached automatically for my weapon, fingers closing around the grip as I rose silently.
"Dominic?" I called softly.
No answer.
Fear slithered through my veins as I moved toward the helm, gun raised. The navigation console was unmanned, the boat completely still. Outside the windows, fog pressed against the glass, so thick I couldn't see more than a few feet beyond.
"Dominic!" I called louder, my heart rate accelerating.
The cabin door opened, and I swung toward it, finger hovering over the trigger.
Dominic stepped inside, his own weapon drawn. Relief flooded me, quickly replaced by confusion at his tense expression.
"What's happening?" I demanded. "Why aren't we moving?"
"Engine died about an hour ago," he replied, securing the door behind him. "We drifted into this fog bank. I've been trying to restart it, but something's fried in the electrical system."
"Fuck." I lowered my gun. "How long was I asleep?"
"Almost six hours."
"Six? Goddamnit, Dominic, I told you four!"
"You needed it." His tone was unapologetic. "And we were making good progress until this happened."
I moved to the window, trying to peer through the dense fog. Nothing but swirling white mist. "Where are we?"
"About twenty miles from the Quebec border, if my calculations are correct." He ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration. "We're adrift, but the current should eventually carry us eastward. The problem is visibility and our lack of power."
"And Petrov's men?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"If they're searching with boats, we're essentially blind. They could be fifty yards away and we wouldn't know until they were on top of us."
"What about the helicopter?"
"Grounded, most likely. Not even Petrov would risk flying in this soup." He gestured toward the impenetrable fog. "But that's temporary. Once this lifts..."
He didn't need to finish the thought. We'd be exposed, a sitting target on open water.
"Options?" I asked, falling into the familiar pattern of strategic assessment.
"Limited. We can try to repair the engine—I've got some mechanical experience, but without parts or proper tools, chances are slim."
"What about abandoning ship? Swimming to shore?"
He shook his head. "Too far in these conditions. The water temperature would kill us before we made it halfway. Not to mention we'd be abandoning the ledger and all our supplies."
I nodded, thinking quickly. "Could we signal for help? Coast Guard or local fishing vessels?"
"And risk Petrov intercepting the transmission? Too dangerous." He moved to the navigation console, checking our position again. "There's an island chain about five miles northeast. If the current continues to pull us that way, we might be able to reach it."
"And if not?"
His eyes met mine, unflinching. "Then we're fucked."
I appreciated his honesty, even as dread pooled in my stomach. Stranded in fog on a dead boat with Petrov's men hunting us wasn't exactly how I'd planned to spend the day.
"Alright," I said, mentally shifting into problem-solving mode. "Let's focus on what we can control. You keep working on the engine. I'll go through our supplies, see what we can use."
He nodded, but before he could move toward the door, I caught his arm.
"First, you eat something," I insisted. "And drink water. When's the last time you did either?"
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. "You sound like my mother."
"God forbid," I muttered, earning a soft chuckle from him.
I rummaged through our supplies, finding energy bars and a bottle of water. Not exactly a feast, but it would have to do. I handed them to him, watching as he wolfed down the food with mechanical efficiency.
"You've been going through more files," I observed, noticing the laptop open on the small table, screen dimmed to conserve battery.
"Found something interesting," he confirmed between bites. "More evidence of the FBI mole we suspected. Deputy Director Clark."
"Shit." I moved to the laptop, scanning the open document. "He's been feeding Petrov information for over a decade?"
"Since his early days as a field agent. Petrov has photos, recordings, the works."
"This explains how they knew about the convoy transporting Sophia." The pieces were falling into place. "And probably how they tracked us to Thunder Bay so quickly."
Dominic nodded grimly. "Clark has tentacles throughout the Bureau. Which means we can't trust any official channels for help or protection."
I continued reading, something cold settling in my chest as I reached the end of the file. "Dominic... it says here Clark personally oversaw the disposal of three agents who got too close to uncovering Petrov's network."
"I saw that." His voice was tight. "Including Special Agent Harper."
The name hit me like a physical blow. "The one who led the raid on the factory? Who interviewed me afterward?"
"The same. Her 'car accident' was apparently staged."
I closed my eyes briefly, remembering the no-nonsense agent who'd offered me witness protection, who'd seemed genuinely determined to bring down Petrov's network. She'd been murdered for it.
"The more we learn, the worse it gets," I said quietly.
"And the more valuable this ledger becomes," Dominic added. "It's not just our insurance policy anymore—it's the only way to dismantle the entire corrupt system."
The weight of that responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders. What had started as a personal vendetta against the men who killed my father had evolved into something far larger, with implications that reached the highest levels of government.
"I need air," I said suddenly, the cabin walls seeming to close in around me.
Dominic nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Stay low and keep your weapon ready. Fog muffles sound—someone could be closer than we think."
I slipped out onto the deck, the cool mist immediately enveloping me. The fog was disorienting, creating an eerie sense of isolation, as if our small boat existed in a void, disconnected from the rest of the world. The silence was profound, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the hull.
I moved carefully to the bow, gripping the railing as I peered into the impenetrable white. The damp air filled my lungs, clearing my head as I tried to process everything we'd learned.
The ledger wasn't just about Petrov's network—it was about the entire corrupt foundation on which parts of our government operated. People I'd been taught to trust, institutions I'd believed in, all compromised to their core.
A soft splash somewhere in the fog made me freeze, every nerve instantly alert. I crouched lower, gun drawn, listening intently.
There it was again—a gentle disturbance in the water, too deliberate to be natural. Something was moving out there, just beyond the curtain of white.
I backed toward the cabin, keeping my movements slow and silent. The splash came again, closer this time, accompanied by the faint creak of oars.
A boat. Moving almost silently through the fog.
I slipped back inside the cabin, closing the door with exquisite care. Dominic was instantly on alert, reading the tension in my posture.
"Someone's out there," I whispered. "Small boat, maybe a rowboat or canoe. Approaching from the starboard side."
He moved to the window, keeping his body flat against the wall as he peered out. "How many?"
"Couldn't see. But they're being deliberately quiet."
He nodded once, mind already racing through scenarios. "Could be a local fisherman."
"Or Petrov's men."
"Either way, we're sitting ducks." He checked his weapon. "If they're hostile, we need to take control of their boat. It might be our only way out of here."
I understood his logic. If the approaching vessel had a working engine, it represented our best chance at escape. If it was just a rowboat, at least it was mobile, unlike our dead-in-the-water craft.
"I'll take the port side," I said, checking my own weapon. "You take starboard."
He nodded, then paused, his eyes meeting mine. For a moment, the urgency of our situation receded, replaced by something deeper, more personal.
"Val..." he began.
"Don't," I cut him off gently. "No goodbyes. We're getting through this."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I was going to say 'be careful,' but I appreciate the sentiment."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Oh."
"But since you brought it up," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "if something happens to me—"
This time I silenced him with a kiss, quick and fierce. "Nothing's happening to either of us," I insisted against his lips. "Now shut up and get in position."
The splash came again, closer now. We separated, moving silently to opposite sides of the boat. I crouched by the port side door, weapon ready, listening to the soft sounds of approach.
The fog played tricks with acoustics, making it difficult to pinpoint the exact location of our visitor. I strained my ears, trying to filter out the gentle lap of water against our hull.
Then I heard it—the unmistakable scrape of a boat bumping against ours. On the starboard side, exactly where I'd first detected movement.
I tensed, waiting for Dominic's signal or the first sign of hostile intent. Seconds stretched into an eternity of anticipation.
A voice broke the silence—male, speaking low in what sounded like French-accented English.
"Hello? Anyone aboard?"
Dominic and I exchanged glances across the cabin. He made a small hand gesture—wait.
"We saw your boat drifting," the voice continued. "Are you in need of assistance?"
It could be a trap. Petrov's men trying to flush us out. But it could also be genuine help, a local who'd spotted our adrift vessel in the fog.
Dominic motioned for me to stay put as he moved toward the starboard door, keeping his weapon ready but out of immediate sight.
"Who's asking?" he called through the closed door.
"Marcel Trudeau," the voice replied. "My son and I are local fishermen. Your boat is drifting toward the rocks. We thought you might need help."
Local fishermen. Possible, even likely in these waters. But still a risk.
Dominic made a decision, giving me a brief nod before cracking the door open slightly, his body positioned to block any immediate attack.
I couldn't see the exchange from my position, but I kept my weapon trained on the door, ready to provide covering fire if needed.
"Engine died," I heard Dominic explain. "Electrical system's fried."
"Bad luck," the unseen Marcel responded. "Especially in this fog. We can tow you to safer waters, if you'd like. There's a small harbor on Île du Refuge, not far from here."
Île du Refuge. I didn't recognize the name, but an island harbor would provide shelter and potentially parts or tools to repair our boat.
"That's generous of you," Dominic replied, his tone carefully neutral. "But we're on a tight schedule. Heading to Quebec City."
"You won't make Quebec City in a dead boat," Marcel pointed out reasonably. "And when this fog lifts, the wind's supposed to pick up. Could get dangerous out here."
I watched Dominic's posture, reading his assessment. After a moment, he opened the door wider, revealing our potential rescuers.
From my new angle, I could see an older man with a weather-beaten face and a younger man—presumably his son—in a simple fishing boat tied alongside ours. They looked harmless enough, dressed in practical fishing gear, their boat laden with equipment.
Still, I kept my weapon ready, hidden from their view but available in an instant.
"My wife and I would appreciate the tow," Dominic said, falling easily into our cover as a married couple. "We can pay you for your trouble."
The older man—Marcel—waved off the offer. "No need. Can't leave folks stranded in weather like this. François here will set up the tow line."
The younger man nodded, already moving to secure a thick rope to our boat. I watched carefully for any sign of deception or threat, but his movements seemed genuine.
Dominic stepped back inside briefly, his eyes meeting mine. "Seems legitimate," he murmured. "But stay alert. We'll play along until we can assess the situation better."
I nodded, holstering my weapon but keeping it easily accessible. "I'll get our essential bags ready, just in case."
While Dominic returned to help with the tow preparations, I quickly gathered our most critical supplies—the waterproof bags containing the ledger, flash drive, weapons, and emergency cash. If this turned out to be a trap, we'd be ready to move instantly.
Through the window, I watched as François efficiently secured the tow line, his movements those of someone who'd done this many times before. Marcel remained in their boat, adjusting the small outboard motor.
Nothing about their behavior raised red flags, but years of caution had taught me never to fully trust initial appearances. Petrov had operatives everywhere, trained to seem harmless until the moment they struck.
Dominic came back inside as the preparations were completed. "They're taking us to an island about three miles northeast. Small fishing community, according to Marcel. Might be able to get parts for the engine there."
"You believe them?" I asked quietly.
"Tentatively. Their boat's genuinely equipped for fishing—not the kind of cover Petrov's men would typically use. And they seem familiar with these waters." He glanced at our packed bags. "Good thinking, though. We'll stay ready."
The gentle pull of the tow line started, our boat moving slowly through the fog behind the fishermen's smaller craft. I stood at the window, watching the white mist swirl around us, revealing nothing of what might lie ahead.
"Did you tell them our names?" I asked.
"Alex and Marie Dubois," he replied. "Tourists from Montreal."
I nodded, grateful for his quick thinking. "What's our story if they ask?"
"Anniversary trip. Rented the boat in Thunder Bay for a romantic getaway."
"Very romantic," I said dryly, gesturing to our current predicament.
A rare smile touched his lips. "Nothing says 'I love you' like being stranded in fog and hunted by Russian operatives."
Despite everything, I laughed—a brief release of tension that felt unexpectedly good. Dominic's eyes softened at the sound, his hand finding mine in the dim light of the cabin.
For a moment, we simply stood there, connected by that small point of contact, finding strength in each other amid the chaos of our lives. Then, reluctantly, we separated, returning to the vigilant state that had become our default mode.
The journey through the fog was surreal, our boat gliding through the white void as if suspended in limbo. Time seemed to lose meaning, minutes stretching into what felt like hours as we followed the invisible pull of the tow line.
Gradually, shadowy shapes began to emerge from the mist—first just darker patches in the whiteness, then resolving into the distinct outline of an island. Rugged shoreline appeared, dotted with pine trees bending under the weight of recent snow.
"Île du Refuge," Marcel called back to us as the island came into view. "Harbor's just around this point."
The small fishing village revealed itself piece by piece as we rounded the rocky promontory. A collection of weathered buildings clung to the shore, fishing boats of various sizes moored at a simple wooden dock. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, the only sign of human presence in the otherwise still scene.
Marcel guided us expertly into an empty berth at the end of the dock, his son jumping out to secure the lines. The routine efficiency of their movements lent credence to their story as local fishermen.
"Welcome to Refuge," Marcel said as he tied off his own boat. "Not much to look at, but we've got what you need—food, shelter, and Henri's shop might have parts for your engine."
"We appreciate the help," Dominic replied, maintaining our cover of grateful tourists. "How many people live here?"
"Year-round? About thirty. Mostly fishermen and their families. More in summer when the tourists come." Marcel gestured toward a building at the end of the dock. "That's Madame Boucher's place. She has rooms for rent, simple but clean."
I scanned our surroundings, noting potential escape routes, defensive positions, and threat vectors—an automatic assessment ingrained by years of training and survival. The island seemed peaceful enough, but appearances could be deceiving.
"Is there a phone we could use?" I asked.
"Satellite phone at the general store," Marcel pointed to a larger building up the slope from the harbor. "Cell service is spotty out here, especially in weather like this."
Dominic nodded, exchanging a glance with me. A satellite phone could be exactly what we needed—a secure way to transmit selected parts of the ledger to trusted contacts.
"Let's get you settled at Madame Boucher's," Marcel continued. "Then François can take you to Henri's to look at engine parts."
We gathered our essential bags, leaving the rest of our supplies on the boat for now. As we stepped onto the dock, I felt exposed, vulnerable in this unknown territory with its unfamiliar faces.
An older woman appeared at the door of the nearest building, curiosity evident in her expression as she observed the newcomers. Marcel waved to her, calling out something in rapid French that I couldn't quite catch.
She responded in kind, then switched to English as we approached. "Welcome to Refuge," she said, her accent thick but words clear. "Marcel says you had trouble with your boat?"
"Engine died in the fog," Dominic explained. "We were lucky your fishermen found us."
"God watches over fools and travelers," she said with a hint of amusement. "I'm Madame Boucher. I have rooms if you need a place to stay while your boat is repaired."
"Thank you," I replied, keeping my tone appreciative but neutral. "We'd be grateful for a room, just for tonight hopefully."
She nodded, leading us inside a small but immaculately kept building that functioned as a kind of informal inn. The interior was warm and smelled of wood smoke and something delicious cooking.
"Dinner is at six," she informed us as she led us up a narrow staircase. "Fish stew tonight. The room has its own bathroom—small, but the water is hot."
She opened a door to reveal a modest but clean room with a double bed, basic furniture, and a tiny attached bathroom. Windows overlooked the harbor, offering a clear view of our boat tied at the dock.
"This is perfect," Dominic told her, maintaining our tourist facade as he set down his bag. "How much do we owe you?"
The practical matter of payment was quickly settled, with Dominic handing over Canadian cash from our emergency supplies. Madame Boucher left us with a key and instructions about meals, her manner brisk but not unfriendly.
When the door closed behind her, Dominic immediately did a sweep of the room, checking for any surveillance devices or other concerns. I moved to the window, scanning the harbor and surrounding buildings for anything suspicious.
"Thoughts?" he asked quietly when he'd finished his inspection.
"Seems genuine," I admitted. "But we're still exposed here. Too many unknowns."
He nodded, setting our bags on the bed and extracting the waterproof case containing the laptop and flash drive. "We should use that satellite phone, transmit some of the key files while we have the chance."
"Agreed. But we select the targets carefully. People least likely to be compromised."
"I've been thinking about that," he said, his voice low despite the apparent privacy of our room. "There's a journalist—Eliza Chen. She broke the story on the pharmaceutical corruption scandal last year. Refused to back down despite death threats. No obvious connections to any of the figures in the ledger."
I considered this. "Independent journalist would be better than going through established media companies. They all have corporate ties that could be compromised."
"Exactly. And we don't send everything—just enough to get her attention and establish credibility. Specific evidence about Senator Williams and Deputy Director Clark. The most explosive material that can't be easily buried."
"And a secure way for her to contact us for more," I added. "A dead drop or encrypted channel."
Dominic nodded, already setting up the laptop. "We'll need to be careful with the satellite phone. They can be tracked if someone knows what to look for."
"Brief transmission, then," I concluded. "In and out."
While Dominic prepared the files we would send, I took the opportunity to wash up in the tiny bathroom. The hot water was a luxury after our time on the boat, and I indulged in a quick shower, washing away layers of grime and tension.
As the water sluiced over me, I found myself thinking about the bizarre turns my life had taken. From undercover dancer infiltrating Dominic's club to fugitive on a remote Canadian island, preparing to expose a massive government conspiracy. If someone had described this future to me a year ago, I would have laughed in their face.
And then there was Dominic himself—the man I'd sworn to destroy, now the person I trusted most in the world. The one constant in the shifting chaos our lives had become.
I stepped out of the shower, drying quickly and changing into the cleanest clothes I had left—a simple t-shirt and jeans from our emergency supplies. When I emerged from the bathroom, Dominic was just closing the laptop, his expression grim.
"What is it?" I asked immediately, recognizing the tension in his jaw.
"Found something else in the ledger," he said, his voice tight. "Something Petrov buried deep in the encrypted files."
"About us?"
He shook his head. "About your father."
My heart stuttered. "What about him?"
Dominic hesitated, which was unlike him. "Val... according to these files, your father wasn't just investigating Petrov's network. He was looking into something called Project Lazarus."
"Project Lazarus?" I repeated, the name unfamiliar. "What is it?"
"Some kind of joint operation between Russian intelligence and compromised elements within our own government. The details are fragmented, but it appears to involve genetic research, experimental technologies..." He paused. "And human subjects."
A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with my damp hair. "Human experimentation? That's what my father discovered?"
"Not just discovered," Dominic said quietly. "According to these files, he was trying to shut it down. And he wasn't working alone."
"Who was he working with?"
Dominic's eyes met mine, the weight of revelation heavy in his gaze. "My father."
The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet. "Your father? But he died when you were young."
"That's what I was told," Dominic confirmed, his voice carefully controlled. "But according to these files, Antonio Castellano and Alessandro Ricci were partners—not just in business, but in an unsanctioned operation to expose Project Lazarus."
I sank onto the edge of the bed, trying to process this new information. "So our fathers were working together against Petrov? Against this... project?"
"It appears so. And it cost them both their lives." Dominic's expression was unreadable. "My father's 'heart attack' was as manufactured as your father's 'mob hit.'"
The implications were staggering. Not only had our fathers known each other, they'd been allies in some kind of shadow war against a classified project involving human experimentation. And they'd both been murdered for it.
"Why wouldn't my father have told me about this?" I wondered aloud. "About your father?"
"Same reason I never knew about your father," Dominic replied. "Protection through compartmentalization. The less we knew, the safer we were."
I shook my head, struggling to reconcile this new information with everything I thought I knew about my father. "So all these years, when you were protecting me..."
"I was honoring a promise to your father, yes. But I never knew the full story." His jaw tightened. "None of us did. Sophia, Marco—they were kept in the dark as well, which is why their betrayal was so effective. They thought they were just selling out rival mob interests, not exposing a covert intelligence operation."
"And now we've stumbled onto the same conspiracy," I said, the weight of realization settling over me. "The ledger doesn't just contain Petrov's insurance policy—it contains evidence of whatever our fathers were trying to expose."
Dominic nodded grimly. "Which makes it infinitely more valuable. And us infinitely more hunted."
I stood, pacing the small room as I tried to process everything. "We need to know more about Project Lazarus. What it is, who's involved."
"The files are incomplete," Dominic admitted. "Petrov himself may not have had full access. But there are references to a facility in northern Quebec. A research installation disguised as a private medical center."
A thought struck me. "The safe house we're heading to—how close is it to this facility?"
"Too close for comfort, now that I think about it. Less than fifty miles."
The implications sent a chill through me. "So we're running directly toward the heart of the conspiracy our fathers died trying to expose."
"Appears that way." Dominic's eyes met mine, determination hardening his features. "Which means we have a choice to make."
"Do we run and hide, or do we finish what they started?" I already knew the answer. In Dominic's eyes, I saw the same resolve I felt building in my chest.
"We need more information first," he said, practical as always despite the emotional weight of our discovery. "Let's start with that satellite transmission to Eliza Chen. Then we find Henri, get parts for the boat."
"And then?"
A dangerous smile touched his lips. "Then we do what we do best, Val. We infiltrate."
The thought should have terrified me—walking deliberately into the spider's web that had already claimed our fathers' lives. Instead, I felt a strange sense of purpose, as if pieces of a puzzle were finally falling into place.
"For our fathers," I said softly.
Dominic nodded, something fierce and protective in his gaze. "For our fathers. And for us."
We sealed the pact with a kiss, brief but charged with meaning. Then we gathered what we needed for the satellite transmission and headed downstairs, stepping back into our roles as stranded tourists while carrying the weight of a decades-old conspiracy on our shoulders.
The fog still clung to the island, wrapping Refuge in a cocoon of isolation. But for the first time since we'd acquired the ledger, I felt a strange sense of clarity—a path forward through the mist of uncertainty.
Whatever Project Lazarus was, whatever secrets it held, we would uncover them. And in doing so, perhaps we would finally understand the legacy our fathers had left us—a legacy written in blood and secrets.