The air in Quito was thin, sharp, and tasted of ancient sulfur and high-altitude rain. Stepping off the jet was like walking into a wall of ice that smelled of home. I stood at the top of the stairs, my lungs burning as they fought to pull oxygen from the four-thousand-meter elevation, while the jagged silhouette of the Andes loomed over the runway like the teeth of a sleeping giant.
Roman was already at the bottom, his hands buried in the pockets of his overcoat, looking up at me. The wind whipped his hair across his forehead, but he didn't blink. He looked like he belonged here—a predator in a landscape that didn't forgive weakness.
"Welcome back, Brielle," he said, his voice carrying easily through the thin air. "Does it feel like victory, or does it feel like a haunting?"
"It feels
