The list was wrong. It had to be. Seven names stared back at me from my notebook—Sophie, Jace, Celeste, Margot, Helena, Marcus, Ava—and every single one felt impossible. I'd spent the past three days watching each of them like a hawk, cataloguing conversations, tracking movements, searching for the silver glint of Volkov eyes that would mark them as a traitor. But I'd found nothing. And the draft was now eleven days away.Jace stood at my apartment window, his silhouette sharp against the pale morning light. He'd been quiet since we left the compound—not withdrawn, not pushing me away, but thinking. I recognized the look now. The same one he wore before a big game, calculating angles and probabilities, searching for the opening that would win everything."You've been staring at that list for an hour," he said without turning around."I've been staring at it for three days. It's not giving me any answers.""Then maybe we're asking the wrong question." He turned to face me. "We've been
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