Sophie stepped off a private rail at Geneva’s edge, dressed simply in black, a single leather bag in hand.

Camellia waited at the gate.

They didn’t hug.

They didn’t speak.

They just nodded — a pact between women who knew what it meant to carry ghosts and still keep walking.

Sophie Burnett walked into the Phoenix atrium with the quiet gravity of a woman who’d been broken, rebuilt, and sharpened to precision. Her presence alone parted conversations and slowed footsteps.

It had been weeks since the Civic Restoration Summit, and still the whispers of her return stirred more tension than celebration.

Camellia waited at the elevator.

“You didn’t call ahead,”...