Maya didn’t knock.

She pushed the door open with a sharp motion, as if hesitation itself disgusted her. The room smelled faintly of ink and old wood, Alyssa’s private office lit only by the city’s afterglow bleeding through the tall windows. Alyssa looked up from her desk, eyes narrowing—not in surprise, but in calculation.

“You look like someone who’s decided to burn a bridge,” Alyssa said calmly. “Which one did you set on fire this time?”

Maya closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Her usual composure was cracked. Not broken—but strained, like glass under pressure.

“I need to talk to you,” Maya said. “Alone.”

Alyssa gestured to...