The one-bedroom apartment smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and fast food. The walls were bare, the furniture minimal: a couch with mismatched cushions, a folding dining table in the corner, and a single lamp casting a pool of golden light over the cluttered coffee table. Outside, Manhattan continued to hum past the rain-streaked window, unaware of the secret war unfolding inside.

Carolina sat cross-legged on the couch, her phone plugged into a power bank, eyes locked on the glowing ...