Chapter 12 The Calm

• Morning slips soft through cracked blinds. The safehouse hums low with the smell of burnt toast, stale coffee, and a storm waiting to break.
• Ellerei sits cross-legged at the war table, stacks of blueprints spread like tarot cards across scarred wood. Her hair’s half up, the white streak curling like a ribbon over one ear. She taps a pen against her teeth, eyes sharp, mind a hundred miles ahead.
• Decker’s at the counter, mug in hand, quiet as always but listening. Bishop’s perched on the edge of the battered couch, phone balanced on his knee as he flicks through encrypted messages like he’s half hoping they’ll explode just to keep him awake.