Kotto was waking in a warm, humid haze, the kind that rises off the Wouri before the sun burns it away. Agent Kom ground his beans by hand, slowly, like a pianist tuning his instrument. The copper pot was already singing on the stove. First Ngang of the morning. Non negotiable ritual.

Nadia pushed the door open without a sound, tailored suit sharp, an encrypted phone at her fingertips.

"The American military attaché is parked out front. Twenty minutes now. He refused the lot, chief."

Kom poured his coffee into a porcelain cup, breathed in the steam, barely smiled.

"Na so e be, mon ami. Quand un satellite parle ma langue, je dois répondre."

The American walked in, suit creased from the red eye flight. Sentinel 7 had been emitting for eighteen days a signal neither the NSA nor Space Force could decode. The spectral analysis laid on the table matched, line for line, the thesis Kom had written at Polytechnique and never published.

Coffee was offered. He politely refused. Kom sipped slowly, turned the pages of the classified file, unreadable.

Last page. A handwritten equation, circled in red marker. His handwriting. Ten years ago. An equation nobody, absolutely nobody, should have owned.

Nadia met his eyes. He did not blink.

Curious who betrayed Agent Kom? Slide into my Messenger, I'll tell you between two sips. ☕