The safe house was a glass-and-steel monolith overlooking the Isle of Dogs, a sterile sanctuary where the only sound was the rhythmic hum of the high-end air filtration system. Outside, London was a grey blur of rain and fog; inside, the temperature was a precise 20°C.
Seraphina sat on the edge of the bed, her hands resting palm-up on her knees. She was motionless, a statue of porcelain and hidden lightning. The violet ring in her eyes had receded to a thin, jagged filament, but the pressure in her skull remained—a phantom weight that felt like someone else’s memories trying to find a shelf.
"One hundred and fifteen days," she whispered.
Alessandro stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his silhouette cutting a sharp, dark line against the city lights. He was cleaning his Beretta, the rh
