The safehouse held its silence like a secret. Vince prowled the narrow living room, pacing in circles that never seemed to end, like a man caught between fight and flight with nowhere to go. His agitation seeped into the walls, into everyone’s skin. Julian hunched over his screens, fingers moving but shoulders rigid, his eyes burning from the endless hunt for whispers buried in Lorik’s networks.
Jerry lay stretched on the couch, half-conscious, his words tumbling out in fragments. Painkillers softened his voice, but not enough to disguise the fever pressing through. His murmurs drifted like smoke—sentences that never finished, confessions meant for no one.
Pat sat apart, her attention fixed on the quiet ritual of steel and cloth. The movements were steady, precise. She cleaned her weapon
