The booking-area terminal still flickers on the forged warrant metadata when Dallas cross-references the Harbor Unit logs. The same authorization ID keeps surfacing, clean and stubborn, tied to one private office terminal.

The pattern is too neat. It points to Captain Miller’s office.

Halloway’s color drains out. He stares at the screen like it has just named him in open court, while Jackson Temple leans in from the doorway and sees it too.

The lie finally folds in on itself. The mole is not some faceless clerk hiding in the halls, it is someone trusted at the top, someone with a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and a key to the building.

On the terminal, the access trail stays lit, patient as a fingerprint in dust. Dallas has the name, the office, and the shape of the betrayal.