The documents didn’t arrive with drama.

No blood. No threats. No midnight phone call.

They arrived as an encrypted folder in Maya’s inbox at 02:17 a.m., labeled with a name no one had spoken aloud in fifteen years.

Project Lazarus.

Maya stared at the screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard, heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. She knew that name. Of course she did. Everyone who had survived Davin’s early rise knew it—whispered in closed rooms, buried under settlements and disappearances.

She clicked.

The first file opened slowly, as if the system itself hesitated.

A list of shell companies. Offshore accounts. Medical research grants funneled...