He didn’t shout or threaten. He simply walked up to her desk, picked up her engraved nameplate, and said, “Ariadna. The one who led Theseus out of the labyrinth.” He tilted his head. “Pity. You’ve been leading the Minotaur all along.”

Berlin.

As the police stormed the final barricade, she grabbed the one thing of true value: the Governor’s encrypted tablet, still logged in, containing off-shore account numbers and slush-fund ledgers that could topple a government.

She wasn't wearing a mask anymore. She wasn't a hostage, a lover, or a pawn.

When a young, frantic inspector from the Nairobi Brigade found her huddled in a supply closet, Ariadna didn’t scream or cry. She calmly handed over the tablet.

When Arturo Román sneered at her from the floor, calling her a “traitor’s whore,” Ariadna didn’t flinch. She knelt beside Berlin, placed a hand on his chest, and looked Román dead in the eye. The rebellion felt electric.