Dr. Skye Laska sat alone in the makeshift infirmary of Vanguard's fortified police station, the distinct aroma of her slim cigarette mingling with the sterile tang of antiseptics. Absorbed in her art, she sketched from memory, her pencil tracing the delicate outlines of a field of poppies, the petals dancing in an invisible breeze on the canvas. Her sharp blue eyes, usually filled with the weight of her thoughts, lightened as she recalled the vibrancy of each bloom. In these rare moments of soli...