Miso reached Black Rose headquarters in complete, heavy silence, the wet tires of her sport bike humming against the subterranean garage ramp before she cut the ignition.
Carrying the damp chill of the midnight rain in the leather of her jacket, her boots made faint, rhythmic squeaks against the polished marble floor of the elevator bay. She stepped inside the private glass elevator, pressed the glowing button for the 6th floor, and leaned her head back against the mirrored wall as the lift surged upward.
She had walked these high-tech corridors thousands of times over the last five years—always with absolute confidence, always prepared to deliver digital intelligence, always certain down to her bones that her Leader would handle every threat with that frightening, reassuring, unbreakable composure.
But tonight felt terribly, dangerously different.
