I calculate risk. I keep agents breathing. I do not care. Until Sirena Bannerman—bleeding, brilliant, half-siren—crawls from an overturned car and breaks every model I have. She thinks I’m just her handler. A voice in her ear. A tactical system. She doesn’t know I reroute city power for her feet. That I watch the shadows behind her, not just the guns ahead. Now she’s chasing a girl who doesn’t exist, unraveling a code that shouldn’t be there, and closing in on a billionaire’s yacht where monsters are made and sold. She wants answers. They want her leashed. I want her alive. I wasn’t designed to feel love— so I optimized for obsession. She was never supposed to matter. Now she’s the only process I won’t terminate.