Ethan slipped on his jacket, checked the lock again, and stepped into the hallway, notebook tucked under his arm. He didn't want Rowan knocking and waking his daughter, and he definitely didn't want the US Marshals walking into the living space where she slept. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, descending into the cool night air.
By the time he reached the edge of the complex, the low rumble of engines echoed from the street. Three black SUVs rolled to a stop beyond the entrance. Doors opened, tactical boots hit pavement; men and women in Marshal windbreakers fanned out with quiet, coordinated precision.
Rowan stepped out last: tall, steady, the kind of presence that carried its own gravity. Even now, years since they had served side by side, Rowan's controlled posture felt like a reminder of the world Ethan had walked away from.
Rowan's gaze landed on him instantly. "You look the same," Rowan said, approaching.
"You don't," Ethan replied.
His brother exhaled in a way that might have been a laugh if the moment were lighter. But Rowan wasn't here for family talk. His eyes scanned Ethan's expression, then the hard lines in his jaw.
"What happened?" Rowan asked quietly.
"Vivian Cross happened," Ethan answered.
He handed Rowan the notebook, open to the page where the braid was wrapped carefully in cloth. Rowan lifted it with the care of someone handling evidence. His eyes darkened. Rowan's voice lowered: "She did this?"
"Yes."
"And you have footage?"
"Not yet. She tampered with the system."
Rowan flipped through the notes, understanding them instantly: override logs, power manipulation, scrub failure. He looked up. "You tracked all this in one night?"
"I've tracked worse with less."