The Gulfstream tilted into descent over Miami, city lights glittering below like God spilled a box of diamonds. My chest buzzed with that familiar electricity, the one that meant it was time to peel off Peter Carter like dead skin. The mask was coming on. The other real me was about to step out.
"ARIA," I thought, voice humming through our link, "status check—what's our surveillance look like from Lincoln Heights?"
"Minimal," she answered, her voice threading through my skull like silk laced with caffeine. "A few ground crew and random passengers saw a masked Peter Carter board with Madison and Charlotte. Nothing significant. And Miami International's camera systems? Totally fucked. I've turned them into digital mush. Nothing will record your arrival, Master. Mask or not."
