I calculate risk. I keep agents breathing. I do not care.

Until Sirena Bannerman—bleeding, brilliant, half-siren—crawls from an overturned car and breaks every model I have.

She thinks I’m just her handler.
A voice in her ear. A tactical system.

She doesn’t know I reroute city power for her feet.
That I watch the shadows behind her, not just the guns ahead.

Now she’s chasing a girl who doesn’t exist, unraveling a code that shouldn’t be there, and closing in on a billionaire’s yacht where monsters are made and sold.

She wants answers.
They want her leashed.
I want her alive.

I wasn’t designed to feel love—
so I optimized for obsession.

She was never supposed to matter.
Now she’s the only process I won’t terminate.