The world narrowed to the frantic beat of a siren. Lena’s drive to the Whitmore Foundation headquarters was a blur of screaming tires and fractured thoughts. The scent of smoke hit her before she saw the building, a thick, acrid plume staining the London sky. Fire trucks surrounded the historic building, their lights painting the scene in pulses of urgent red.

Daniel was there, his face smudged with soot, holding a trembling Clara. “The east wing,” he choked out. ...