But this time, June is going to be accompanying the Elector. It leaves me that much more on edge as I head up to the top floor to join the rest of the agents.

Jessan and Lara are already here, out of at least a dozen agents who have gathered into two lines leading up to the landing pad. A series of barricades separate them from the rest of the floor, where a barrage of reporters are already waiting, their cameras clicking away at our agents.

I frown when Jessan gives me a humored smile. At least Lara approaches me with a more serious face. She swipes her fingers through the air, as if downloading something, and then moments later, I get a message from her that pops up in my view.

“We tracked down the rough location of a drone race that happened last night,” she tells me as I fall into place beside them. “It was somewhere in the northeast quadrant of the Undercity.”

I hear an edge to her voice and look up at her. “And?” I ask.

She hesitates. “And,” she replies, “I heard that Dominic Hann himself was spotted at the semifinals yesterday.”

My thoughts waver momentarily from June to Lara’s words. I look sharply at her. “He was there? In person?”

“Apparently. I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t sent some footage.”

She shares another file with me. When I pull it up, I see a video clip set at the start of what definitely looks like a drone race gathering, of someone addressing a young man as Mr. Hann. He greets one of the racers that I can’t make out. I frown as I watch the video again. The man looks just barely older than me, but even with the poor quality of this video, the ripple effect he has on the audience is unmistakable.

I watch the clip again, trying to make out more details of the square’s surroundings. But the video is way too dark and grainy. “No location pinpoint yet on exactly where this happened?”

“No, but we’re checking out the streets to see if we can find something recognizable.”

“Good.” I nod at Lara. “We’ll find our way to the finals tonight,” I tell her.

Our conversation cuts short as a blast of wind hits us from somewhere high above. When I look up, I see a plane materialize through the clouds, lowering itself through Ross City’s biodome to hover over our landing pad. Its tail is painted in streaks of black and red. The Republic’s colors.

The Elector and his team are here. June is here.

All our conversations stop as the elevator to the top floor opens now, and out step President Ikari and his personal bodyguards. He straightens as he walks down the pathway toward our landing pad, a serious smile on his face. Around me, the other agents all stir to attention. I do the same. My heart starts to race. Overhead, the roar of the Republic’s jet engine drowns out all other noise.

I’ve mouthed off at country leaders, blown up airships, and survived being shot—but I’ll tell you this, I’ve still never felt more cracked than I do right now, minutes before the Republic’s Elector touches down. The wind whips my hair back as we wait, until finally the jet rests in the center of the pad’s circle.

I’m walking out toward the jet’s landing ramp before it even completely unfurls. Across from me, Jessan and Lara watch for my command. As camera flashes go off behind us, I point them to the opposite side of me, then pull a fourth agent to join me before motioning for the others to stay with the President. Then we get into formation on either side of the ramp and wait as a silhouette appears at the jet’s open door.

I haven’t seen Anden Stavropoulos, the Republic’s Elector, in person since I left for Ross City. He looks older than I remember, even compared with his interviews on TV, but there’s a comfort in his gaze that wasn’t there before. A confidence in his position that he didn’t use to have.

The cameras go into overdrive. I look back at the reporters, surveying the audience carefully before studying the windows of the skyscrapers on either side of us.

Then I turn to see to those emerging behind him. There’s his expected bevy of bodyguards, same as our President’s, as well as his Princeps-Elect, Mariana. On Anden’s other side is his fiancée—Faline Fedelma, a new presence in the Senate, and the same girl who had once taken me to a banquet in Denver.

Behind me, I can hear murmurs from the reporters as they frantically take photos of the recently engaged couple.

“—had been dating for several years before they made it public—”

“—match well, with her poise and—”

“—heard that Commander Iparis congratulated them—”

The mention of June’s name thuds through my heart. I keep my position, but my body still leans slightly forward as I search for her.

Then she’s stepping out too, with her guards trailing her down the ramp.

Commander June Iparis is a vision—gold epaulettes shining on her shoulders, gold threads looping down the sides of her sleeves, her cape long and dark, crisp white gloves shining as she keeps one hand permanently on the hilt of a gun at her waist. As they walk, she’s already gesturing wordless instructions to her men, assigning two of them to one side of the Elector and his fiancée, two to the other.

Her head is held high, her gaze steady and unwavering.

So many things have changed about her since the first time we met. She was a girl then, full of anger and grief; now she’s a woman, poised and mature and sure of her place in the world.

But in some ways, she hasn’t changed at all. I still watch her in the same way I did the first moment I saw her on the streets, when she stepped into that Skiz duel ring. I still marvel at that glint of fierce intelligence in her eyes, how awake and alive and invincible she seems. I am still entranced.

Her eyes are searching too. They stop when they settle on me.

It could be my imagination, but there’s a slight blush on her cheeks right as she passes me. I have to remind myself not to break out of my formation. Then she’s sweeping by with her soldiers, and I’m closing our ranks to follow behind them, and the roar of the press consumes us all as the Elector shakes hands with President Ikari.

As they pose for photos, I make my way through the crowd behind June, who is standing off to the side with her soldiers. She nods once at the sight of me, then looks away to pay attention to the Elector and the President’s conversation.

I try to concentrate on guarding my President too. But my thoughts whirl like a storm through my head. Was there really a time when I could instinctively know her thoughts? When we had such a comfortable rapport with each other that we could share anything? Or have we always had this strange chemistry—where I have no idea what to say to her, but would do anything to be near her again?

I must have lingered too long on these thoughts, because one moment we’re standing separately and watching over our world leaders … and the next, we’re closing ranks behind them and walking next to each other.

“Agent Wing,” June says with a tilt of her head and the arch of a slender eyebrow.

Damn. She can still make me weak with a single, searing gaze.

“Commander Iparis,” I reply, forcing myself to stay formal and polite. Her eyes dart away for a moment and she clears her throat. We don’t say anything else. Instead, we keep walking in an awkward silence, keenly aware of the other’s presence.

Finally, when the two men start to head down the walkway and we follow in the wake of their entourage, June turns her head slightly toward me. “When are you free?” she asks.