The green light came not with a formal briefing, but with a single, encrypted text from Miller: *The hunter is in the field. Stay sharp.*
Approval. The word tasted like iron and ice. For the next twenty-four hours, the sterile white room became a war room. I was no longer a patient; I was a strategist. I didn't train my body. I sharpened my mind until it was a razor's edge. I studied the satellite maps of the Port of Miami, memorizing every turn, every warehouse, every potential choke point. I reviewed the psychological profile the FBI had on Dante—the one I had secretly helped build over years of whispered observations to my one trusted contact in the old world. His triggers were pride, possession, and a deep-seated fear of being seen as weak. We were about to pull all three at once.
I
