"We've got something," one of the analysts called out from the back.
Gray didn't even need to say anything. He just turned.
The tech's fingers danced over his keyboard, a reflection blown up across his screen—small, almost imperceptible, but enhanced and filtered enough to pull a match.
"Ninety-three percent confidence," the tech muttered. "We ran it against archived security footage, internal access logs—"
Gray's voice was clipped. "Who is it?"
A beat. Then the answer.
"Caden Walton."
Everything in me went still.
I stared at the screen like it might burn a hole through my skull.
Cameron cursed under his breath. "Your—"
"My stepbrother," I finished for him.
Cameron muttered something under his breath, but I didn't hear it. Couldn't. My ears were ringing. Not with shock—I'd suspected. Not with rage—not yet. Just a hard, calculated silence stretching across the space between memory and reality.
Caden.
Of course it was him.
