Thorne didn't turn around. He just reached for his cold coffee, his reflection on the screen showing a man who finally knew too much.

When Thorne arrived, the monument was a tomb. The Seed was slumped against a cold stone pillar, his eyes wide and fixed on the Potomac. No blood, no struggle. Just a small, silver flash drive clutched in his hand and a faint scent of bitter almonds in the air.

The image wasn't of a politician or a lobbyist. It was a live feed of his own office. On the screen, he saw himself sitting at the computer, lit by the blue glow of the monitor. Behind him, a shadow moved.