The morning sun cast long shadows across the floor of George's Chicago apartment, the light filtering through the blinds in golden stripes. George was in the kitchen, making coffee, when a knock at the door broke the morning silence.
He frowned, glancing at the clock. It was barely 7 AM. Too early for visitors.
Sam emerged from the bedroom, still in her robe, her hair tousled. "Are you expecting someone?"
"No. Stay here." George walked to the door, his heart already beginning to race. The old instinct—the one that had kept him alive through years of secrets and danger—had never fully faded.
He opened the door.
A woman stood on the doorstep. She was in her late thirties, with dark hair and tired eyes. She was dressed simply but neatly, and she carried a worn leather satchel over one sh
