Zephany's fingers curled slightly into her lap, her posture stiffening just a bit. Her eyes remained fixed on the grand piano where the performer was now offering a graceful bow.
The audience erupted into polite, enthusiastic applause, but Zephany barely heard any of it.
The mission echoed in her mind like the final notes of the song:
> MISSION: EXPOSE PLAGIARIZED MUSICAL COMPOSITION DURING GRAND HALL PERFORMANCE.
NOTE: THIS IS A SOLO DIRECTIVE. DO NOT DISCUSS WITH TEAM BACON OR OBSCURA.
SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: PERFORM ON STAGE. PURPOSE CLASSIFIED.
So this is what the mission is about...
Her heart thudded as the realization rooted itself deeper. The Archive had somehow known about this. But how? Even she had long buried this part of herself.
And the composition—it wasn't just any song. It was her piece. The one she poured her soul into. The one she composed for her mom.
The one they used to hum together while baking in their old kitchen on Sundays.
