The person behind Emma is young. Maybe mid-twenties. Blonde hair, athletic build, completely unremarkable except for the way they're standing—too still, too controlled, like a predator pretending to be prey.

 I recognize them from the files. Project Eleven.

 Enhanced speed and reflexes. Capable of moving faster than the eye can track.

 "Let her go," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Whatever you want, it's with me. Not her."

 "That's where you're wrong." Project Eleven's smile doesn't reach their eyes. "I want all of you to understand something. The people who sent me? They're not playing games anymore."

 Emma's terrified, tears streaming down her face. "Amaya, I'm sorry. They were in...