A three-dimensional image of Aziz glared at the reporter from the projection unit of the telecom. "You’re wasting valuable time, Masaki. Bring the girl to the address I gave you. Now. Every minute counts." Pita rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up. She’d been sleeping on the couch in Masaki’s apartment and had only heard fragments of the conversation. Something about Carla, the spirit—and herself. She leaned forward, listening avidly.