PETRA
Ronan POV
The surveillance room smelled of stale coffee and burning electronics, the air thick with the tension of perpetual vigilance. Ronan sat before the screens, his eyes tracking four separate feeds simultaneously, and felt the weight of divided attention pressing down on his shoulders like a physical burden. This was what he'd built for fifteen years—the infrastructure of observation, the methodology of suspicion, the professional patience that turned information into security. But the scope of what they now faced tested every limit of his preparation.
Petra occupied the upper left screen—communications room, routine traffic, twelve years of professional competence displayed with the consistency of someone who had either nothing to hide or everything.
