The city wasn’t silent.
Not after the fire.
Not while one of their own was missing.
In there safehouse—now cold concrete, flickering fluorescents, the scent of gun oil and stale coffee—Adrian stood at the center of what remained of his team. The war room was stripped down now: no polished desks, no encrypted terminals on display. Just a steel table, maps pinned to the wall, and the weight of loss pressing down like gravity.
Elena paced.
It wasn’t frantic neither was it emotional.
But tight—like a spring coiled too far. Her arms were crossed, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the floor as if Marco’s blood trail might lead them somewhere. She hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Just moved—restless, sharp, dangerous.
Dante leaned against the wall, sipping espresso from a chipped cup. He watched her,
