I heard a heavy knock on my hotel room door.

It was 3:15 a.m.

“Clara?” Adrian’s voice slurred through the thick mahogany. “Open the door. The concierge said you requested a printer. What the hell are you doing awake?”

I froze.

The printer on the desk was quietly churning out two hundred copies of a specific QR code on heavy, gold-embossed cardstock.

The paper tray hummed loudly in the quiet room.

If he walked in now—if he saw the documents scattered across the bed—the entire coup would collapse before the sun even rose.

The doorknob began to rattle.