The room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that hummed against your skin, the kind that made you certain something was wrong even if you couldn’t see it yet.
Adrian stood near the window of the safehouse, one hand on the curtain, the other gripping a glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched. Rain streaked the pane in shimmering lines, distorting the reflection of his own face. But it wasn’t himself he was watching — it was the street below.
Nora leaned against the table, arms crossed, her sharp gaze trained on him. “You’ve been staring at the same corner for fifteen minutes. What exactly are you expecting to see? A ghost?”
Adrian’s lips twitched in a humorless smirk. “Ghosts don’t bother me. Living people do. Especially the ones who work too hard to look invisible.”
Her brows drew together. “
