The darkness of the stairwell was absolute, broken only by the pale glow of the emergency lights that flickered at the edges of vision. Caleb moved like a ghost, his boots silent on the concrete steps, his knife held low and ready. He had been trained for this—not by the agency, but by the two years of running, of hiding, of learning to survive in the spaces between the cameras and the shadows. He knew how to move without being seen. He knew how to listen for the subtle shifts in air pressure that betrayed an enemy's presence. He knew how to kill, though he had spent every waking moment trying to forget.
Revenant was waiting for him on the second floor.
Caleb could feel it—a wrongness in the air, a cold pressure that pressed against his skin like the approach of a storm. The weapon had s
