The heavy rear metal door of Leto slammed shut, locking behind Nora with a flat, final metallic click. The alleyway was cold, slick with a fine drizzle that turned the greasy pavement into a mirror for the flickering amber sodium lights above.

Two weeks passed without incident, establishing a rhythm that felt almost domestic within the fortress-like walls of the penthouse. Nora spent her days auditing port security protocols and decrypting intercepted financial communications, while Roman managed the intricate web of construction firms, legitimate shipping terminals, and real estate holdings that formed the public face of the Vale empire.

Yet, deep within the subterranean yards near Pier 14, something was shifting.

Late one Tuesday evening, Enzo—Roman’s most trusted enforcer—rushed into the private study without knocking. His face was damp with cold rain, his heavy coat pulled tight against the wind.

“Boss,” Enzo said, catching his breath. “We just got a flag from the automated perimeter sensors on the western loading dock. Someone bypassed the gate locks.”

Roman stood up instantly, his chair scraping back against the polished concrete floor. “Who?”

“Not the Alieds,” Enzo said grimly, sliding a heavy, water-damaged manila envelope across the desk toward Nora. “It’s a courier drop. Left directly on the windshield of your armored sedan. No return address. Just a wax seal stamped with an old family crest from Damascus.”

Nora’s breath hitched. She stared down at the red wax seal—a jagged crescent moon crossed with a broken sword.

“Open it,” Roman commanded softly, stepping closer to her chair.

Nora carefully peeled back the heavy paper. Inside lay a single photograph taken earlier that afternoon: her younger brother, Thomas, sitting on a bench outside St. Jude’s Recovery Center, looking completely unaware of the camera lens zoomed in on his face.