She turned her head toward the other screen, the one already tracking movement in the city's central underworld.
She made no verbal command or any kind of gesture.
The system shifted on its own.
The image of Isabella appeared.
Isabella didn't sneak in.
She was already seated.
A velvet-backed chair, legs crossed, one hand resting casually against a worn poker table deep inside the Vale District's old syndicate hall.
The place wasn't built for comfort. The ceiling was low, the walls stained from years of smoke and the soft flicker of outdated crystal lamps.
Their glow had a yellow tint, like tired eyes that had seen too much and no longer cared.
It didn't bother her.
She had arrived hours earlier, before the guards even started checking rosters.
No fake identity. No illusions. Just enough confidence to look like someone who belonged.
And no one had questioned her.
All the while, the syndicate heads thought they owned this room.
Isabella had been the first to arrive.
