The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the Caribbean into a deep, bruised twilight. The sky transitioned from violently vibrant orange and gold into a dense, impenetrable indigo. The only light on the private terrace came from the submerged, ambient glow of the soaking tub and the faint, silvery wash of a rising moon.
Ryan sat in the center of the steaming water, perfectly still.
The heat of the tub had done its work, melting the final, microscopic layers of hyper-vigilance from his nervous system.
The Warlord Protocol, the ever-present, vibrating hum of aggression and calculation, was entirely dormant. For the first time since the system had activated on a freezing park bench, his mind wasn't analyzing variables, plotting hostile takeovers, or mapping perimeters.
He was simply existing.
