Deadly Game
By 07:00, the ambient warmth of the bedroom had vanished, replaced by the clinical blue glow of three separate holographic monitors floating over the marble kitchen island.
I sat on a high stool, wrapped in one of Malakai’s dark gray linen shirts. It swirled large on my frame, smelling heavily of him—cedar, rain, and the faint, bitter hint of tobacco. My fingers raced across a slim, encrypted terminal, linking the Vesper protocols into Zero’s remote proxy network.