Morning never really felt like morning inside Black Rose Headquarters.
The primary halls were humming with activity, but the artificial light overhead remained sharp, clinical, and unforgiving. It echoed with the rapid cadence of tactical boots and low, urgent murmurs of operational tension. The moment Arora stepped onto the second-floor gallery, she could feel the air heavy with pressure, thick as smoke.
Everyone was moving. Everyone had an assignment. Everyone was attempting to project an illusion of routine efficiency. But the syndicate only operated at this fever pitch when a crisis was unfolding.
And right now, everything was unraveling.
Arora stood at the marble balcony overlooking the central hall, her gloved hands resting on the cold iron railing. Her expression was completely composed—her dark hair swept back into a tight ponytail, her long coat tailored sharp, her eyes calm as still water.
Inside, however, a war raged.
