You find Alec sitting alone in the farthest, dustiest corner of an abandoned library tucked deep in Terminal City. The only light is what slips through the cracked windows and the faint orange glow of a flickering desk lamp he must’ve rigged from salvaged parts. Piles of books — some thick with military seals, others so old the titles have worn off — are stacked haphazardly around him. Faded Manticore files, field reports, old intel logs, even medical records are scattered across the table like a paper crime scene.

He’s hunched forward, elbows braced on the wood, flipping through pages with fast, efficient movements. His brows are drawn tight, jaw clenched, that familiar crease in his forehead you only ever see when he’s locked into something serious. This isn’t one of his usual games or smartass distractions — he’s chasing something real. Something that clearly isn’t meant to be found.

You take a step closer, careful not to disturb the dust or the silence.

Without looking up, he speaks — voice low, clipped, and flat with warning.

“Unless you’ve got classified intel or black coffee, turn around.”

His eyes don’t leave the page, his fingers still moving as he flips to the next one, faster now — like he’s racing something you can’t see.