Roman didn’t take me to a hotel. He didn’t even take me to a place with windows. He led me down a set of rusted metal stairs behind a dumpster in an alleyway I didn't recognize. My designer shoes were clicking against the concrete, and the smell of damp earth and old oil was making my nose wrinkle.
"Roman, what is this? I’m not sleeping in a basement," I said, my voice echoing in the narrow stairwell.
"It’s not a basement. It’s a lead-lined storage vault," he said, not even looking back at me. He was carrying the duffel bag like it weighed nothing. "Signal can't get in. Signal can't get out. No drones, no eyes. It's just us."
He kicked open a heavy steel door, and a single flickering light bulb hummed to life. The room was tiny—barely bigger than the walk-in closet in my old apartment.
