The cabin had been stripped of comfort. No fire. No music. Just silence and the weight of a man who no longer trusted himself.
Michael sat at the edge of the old wooden bed, elbows on knees, staring at a wall he couldn’t seem to see. The wind outside murmured like it knew what he was thinking. High in the mountains, far from city lights and surveillance feeds, he had chosen this place for its isolation. A space where the world couldn’t intrude.
Or where he couldn’t break it.
Erica and Leo were safe now, stashed away behind three layers of forged IDs, two untraceable cars, and a safehouse guarded by one of the last men Michael still trusted—Elias. A farmhouse in Vermont, remote, rustic, stocked. No signals. No leaks.
Still, the question echoed like a bullet inside his skull:
Was it eno
