There’s a rhythm to survival in this place: anticipate the assault, return fire, never show the wound.
So when Lila knocks at my door—one short, two quick, like a secret code—I already know it’s more bad news. But she hesitates at the threshold, eyes scanning my face with a caution I’ve never seen before. She closes the door softly, thumb lingering on the latch. Not for security, but for privacy.
“Ms. Wolfe,” she says, voice pitched low, “I have the files you wanted from Compliance.” She holds out the manila folder, but doesn’t cross the room. Her other hand tightens on the strap of her satchel. Her scent has shifted: vanilla, yes, but spiked now with sharp adrenaline and a faint, unfamiliar sweetness. Concern. Not for herself, but for me.
She’s seen something. Maybe the blood on my pal
