POV: Anya The safehouse smelled like blood and desperation. Anya stood over Architect's unconscious body, feeling nothing. That should have worried her, the emptiness where emotion should be, but she'd spent too many years being empty to recognize it as wrong anymore. Except now, with her immunity at forty-two percent, the emptiness felt different. Like a void she was falling into rather than a state she inhabited. "Five hours until deadline," Dimitri said from his position at the laptop, fingers flying over keys as he cracked Architect's encrypted files. His shoulder was bound where he'd taken a silver bullet, not life-threatening but painful. He'd refused treatment until the mission was complete. Stubborn, paranoid, perfect. Wraith lay on the couch, still sedated. They'd have to wake her soon, decide what to do with her. Another problem, another variable, another person whose life depended on Anya's choices. When did she start caring about keeping people alive? "Tell me about
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