(Brent POV)
Brent Dawson did not react immediately when Joseph forwarded the message.
He never did.
Reaction was noise.
Observation was clarity.
The phone rested in his hand as he stood near the wide glass window of his office, the Paris skyline stretching outward beneath a fading evening light, the city unaware that somewhere within it, a line had already been crossed.
The message was simple.
Too simple.
You shouldn't walk alone.
We've been watching you.
Brent read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time, slower, his gaze narrowing slightly—not at the words themselves, but at what they implied.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Just recognition.
He moved toward the desk, placing the phone down carefully as if it were a piece of evidence rather than a communication, and pulled a tablet closer, fingers already moving as he accessed the message metadata Joseph had sent along with it.
Timestamp.
Routing path.
Signal bounce.
Every detail mattered.
