For a few seconds after Hale and Evelyn went under, everything in the safehouse was still.

Only the low hum of the neural relay filled the air, a rhythmic pulse that sounded too much like a heartbeat.

Gray sat before the terminal, eyes flicking between a dozen cascading readouts — neural synchronization graphs, waveform stability monitors, power flux readings. All green. All clean.

For now.

He leaned back in the chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “All right, kids,” he muttered ...