The rain had stopped by the time dawn reached Manhattan.
From the upper floors of the Sterling private air terminal, the city looked washed raw—glass towers bleeding pale silver beneath the first hints of morning. News helicopters still circled the Shard in the distance like vultures refusing to accept the corpse was already cold.
Inside the terminal, the atmosphere was quieter.
Not peaceful.
Just exhausted.
The war had ended only a few hours ago, but its ghosts were still everywhere—in the bruises beneath Elena's eyes, in the tightness of Reid's jaw, in the ache sitting behind Maya's ribs like broken glass.
Marcus stood near the entrance with two members of Sterling security, overseeing the final preparations. Fake passports. Untraceable routes. Offshore accounts Reid had quietly unlocked during the night.
Enough money for Elena Vance to disappear forever.
Enough money to finally become someone else.
Or maybe— for the first time— to become herself.
