Frank hadn't slept a minute.
He sat in the corner of the dimly lit apartment, gun on the table, coffee gone cold. The blinds were drawn halfway, letting in slivers of dull morning light. Everything around him — the half-opened boxes, Zoey's mug, her jacket on the chair — felt off, staged, like a crime scene that hadn't been cleaned right.
His mind kept looping the scrambled Vertex feed from last night. The distorted image of Zoey's face, duplicated, flickering between human and static.
Was it a simulation? A clone? Or just manipulation?
Every possibility made his stomach twist tighter.
When Zoey finally emerged from her room, stretching in her loose tee, Frank straightened up — hiding the tension under a calm mask.
"Morning," she said, rubbing her eyes. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"Didn't need to."
She smirked faintly. "You always say that when you're lying."
He met her gaze, steady, unreadable. "And you always smile when you're hiding something."
