The penthouse sat atop Albion's highest spire, a haven of dark glass and warm amber light overlooking the sprawling complex below. The bed—absurdly large, silk-sheeted, utterly excessive—was still warm where Syrett lay. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the faint shimmer of teleportation arrays flickered in the distance. Early morning. Quiet. The distant hum of the facility was a lullaby he'd grown accustomed to.

A soft chime from the wall terminal. A schedule prompt. Bunny, Valby, and the others were already off to their duties elsewhere. He had a rare moment to himself.