FAZER LOGINAnya’s POVThe yellowed sheet music sat on the stainless steel table like a ticking bomb. Thomas Vance—the man who was supposed to be a memory, the father Ethan had supposedly buried along with his conscience had vanished back into the shadows of the precinct, leaving me with a map to a grave I didn't want to dig.I stared at the coordinates. They weren't just numbers; they were a rhythm. Julian Rhodes had hidden the location in a time signature that only someone obsessed with his technical flaws would recognize. It was a 5/4 beat, shifted and stretched."Miller, time's up," the guard grunted, his hand hovering over his holster."I need that phone call," I said, my voice cold. I didn't look up. I just memorized the ink on the page. "And I need it now, or the next review I write is going to be about the security lapses in this intake center. I’ve already counted four broken cameras and a guard who’s sleeping in block C."The guard blinked, his posture stiffening. "One call. Make it qu
The doors of the van were flung open, and the world became a strobe-light assault of flashbulbs and screaming questions. "Anya! Over here!" "Is it true, Kai?" "Did Ethan Vance kill his father?"Officers with grim faces and heavy hands grabbed my arms, pulling me out into the frigid night air. I saw Marcus Stone being led into a separate side entrance, his face buried behind the lapels of his ruined jacket, the ultimate fixer finally broken. Further down, near a line of black sedans, I saw Ethan Vance. He was surrounded by a wall of men in tailored suits, his lawyers acting like a human shield. He looked at me across the chaos, and for the first time since I’d known him, the arrogance was gone. There was a raw, naked fear in his eyes. He knew."Anya Miller!" a reporter shrieked, shoving a microphone toward my face. "Was it worth the prison time? Is the Archive real?"I didn't give them a quote. I didn't give them the satisfaction of a soundbite. I just looked at Kai as they led him tow
Anya's povThe back of a police van is not a place for a lady, but since I’d spent the last few weeks being a fugitive, a prisoner, and a mountain-climbing stunt double for a snuff film, I figured I’d lost my "lady" status somewhere around the Nebraska state line. If there was a finishing school for critics who blow up federal property, I’d probably be the valedictorian.The walls here were cold, sweat-slicked metal that smelled of old rust and damp apprehension. The floor was a slab of reinforced steel that didn’t give an inch, telegraphing every bump in the road directly into my bruised tailbone. The only light in this rolling metal coffin came from the small, barred window in the back door, flickering with the strobing, hypnotic rhythm of the sirens. Blue, red, blue, red. It was like being trapped inside a very small, very loud disco designed specifically for people who had made a series of spectacularly bad life choices."You okay back there, Miller?" the driver yelled. I could he
AnyaI looked up from the snow. The sky was still a bruised purple, but the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of a helicopter was returning. Ethan Vance was circling back. Of course he was. He was the director who couldn't leave the set until he was sure the leading lady was dead. He wanted to see the wreckage. He wanted to look down from his mechanical throne and make sure the "final note" was silent.But as I lay there, shivering and broken, I saw something else.A pair of headlights appeared at the bottom of the quarry road, tiny twin stars cutting through the dark. Then another pair. Then six more. They weren't the sleek, black SUVs of Ethan’s private security. They were white and blue, flashing with a frantic, rhythmic intensity. Local police. State troopers. The actual cavalry.And right in the middle of the convoy was a van with a massive satellite dish bolted to the top. A news crew. My people. Sort of.I let out a wet, painful laugh that turned into a cough. The broadcast had worked
Anya's POVThe world didn’t just end again, it tilted.It wasn't some poetic metaphor for my life falling apart. It was actual, screeching physics. The metal floor of the relay station—the same floor I’d been standing on while I tried to play God with a radio frequency—groaned like a dying whale. Then, it leaned thirty degrees to the left. For a heartbeat, my stomach stayed at the top of the tower while my boots began a desperate, screeching slide toward the edge of the platform. Below us, the quarry looked like a hungry black mouth, yawning wide, waiting for the punchline of a very long, very expensive, very bad joke.I slammed my shoulder against a support beam, the cold galvanized steel biting through my jacket. My fingers scrabbled for purchase, my nails digging into the grit on the metal. I looked at Marcus Stone. He was clinging to a control console with the desperation of a man who realized his golden parachute was made of lead. His knuckles were white, his eyes were dinner pla
AnyaThe backseat of the whistleblower’s beat-up sedan smelled like wet upholstery, old cigarettes, and a faint hint of peppermint that made my stomach turn. It was a real step down from the leather-scented luxury of a kidnapping vehicle, but I wasn't in a position to leave a bad review. My ankle was throbbing in three different time signatures, and my shoulder felt like it had been chewed on by a mountain lion. Every time we hit a bump, the pain flared up, bright and hot, reminding me that I was very much made of breakable parts."Can you drive any faster?" I hissed, clutching the thumb drive so hard the metal was starting to leave a permanent dent in my palm. "Or is this the scenic route where we wait for the helicopter to turn us into a roadside attraction? Because I’m not really in the mood for a tour."The man—I think his name was Miller, which was a very boring name for someone involved in a conspiracy—didn't look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the narrow strip of road that wa
Anya’s POVI spent the next three hours hunched over the keyboard, shoulders tight, eyes burning from the blue glare of the screen.The library had grown steadily colder as the night bled into early morning, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you’re wearing. The
Anya’s POVThe laptop screen flickered, throwing a cold, blue glow across the warm mahogany panels of the library. It should have felt clinical, detached—like the rest of this house—but the heat rolling off Kai’s body turned the whole room into something else entirely. A fever. Slow-burning, imposs
Anya’s POVThe estate was tomb-quiet at four in the morning. Ethan’s control was absolute, but even he had to sleep, or at least dock himself into whatever cold charging station he used to maintain his perfection. I had been pacing the library for hours, the taste of Lila’s condescension still bitt
AnyaIf life was a joke, I was definitely the punchline, and Ethan was the one laughing all the way to the bank while I stood in his kitchen trying to remember how to breathe without tasting his smugness. The estate didn't even feel like a home anymore, it felt like a giant stomach that was slowly







