The clandestine medical facility felt like a concrete cave, kept uncomfortably warm by an overcompensating HVAC system. The sharp smell of antiseptic blended with the faint, metallic scent of dried blood—a lingering reminder of the price we’d just paid for trust in Hong Kong. Agent D lay on the sterile cot, his arm encased in thick bandages that seemed to soak up light, heavy with excess disinfectant.
I took the chair next to his bed while Breyer stood in the corner, guarding the door with a stillness he had only recently acquired under my tutelage. My full attention was on Agent D.
“I’m sorry about Hong Kong, D,” I said, keeping my voice low and level. Agent D’s physical wounds felt like a reflection of the deep disappointment burning in my chest.
Agent D winced, fighting back a surge
