Three hundred miles north of the capital, the cool midnight breeze rustled through the pine trees surrounding the high-altitude military command villa.
Derrick Roys sat on the second-floor stone balcony, swirling a glass of neat bourbon. A single tablet rested on the small glass table beside him, its screen casting a soft blue glow against his sharp, composed features.
He scrolled through the lingering digital chatter on his personal feed, watching the frantic headlines that had flooded the public domain hours earlier. A faint, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
'Alex, Alex, Alex...' Derrick thought, taking a slow sip. 'Your past certainly has a habit of clawing its way back to the surface. And it's always the same person.'
