Nia had given up on the Bureau.
She turned her gaze toward the crowd, searching for a single ally among the faces she knew. These were the same people who, back when her father was alive, had practically tripped over themselves to worship him. They used to chant Astrachior's name like a prayer, desperate for even a nod of his approval. Now, they avoided her eyes, shifting uncomfortably or staring at the ground.
The man in the ghost mask was clearly a psychopath, a killer who wouldn't hesitate to paint the street red, and his power was undeniable. No one was willing to gamble their life for a dead man's dignity.
Anger and grief warred in Nia's chest until she couldn't stay silent.
