The clone was gone.
It had offered a final insincere apology, then simply melted back into the crowd.
Julian was left alone in the center of his VIP booth, a king with a broken toy, surrounded by the quiet, cutting sound of his own status crumbling to dust.
He stared at the dead watch on his wrist, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.
He didn't know how.
He didn't know why.
But he knew, with a certainty that burned like acid in his gut, that this was somehow, some way, the ghost's fault.
And he was going to make him pay.
Meanwhile, the clone was already moving, its primary mission complete.
It moved through the crowd without being seen.
But it wasn't heading for the exit.
Not yet.
The mission parameters had been updated.
Psychological warfare was complete.
Now, it was time for the main event.
*Information.*
Back in the diner, Miles felt a fresh wave of focus, a cold clarity that cut through the lingering exhaustion.
The clone was getting ready.
