The safehouse was a warehouse on the edge of the city, its interior stripped to bare concrete and rusted steel, its windows boarded with plywood that had begun to rot. Marisol's people had secured it months earlier for exactly this kind of contingency—a place to hold prisoners, to gather intelligence, to disappear from the eyes of the world. The Archivist sat in a metal chair in the center of the room, his hands bound behind him with industrial zip ties, his white suit now a ruin of grime and blood. His silver hair had come loose, hanging in limp strands over his pale forehead. His eyes, though, were still sharp—grey and cold and utterly unafraid.
Caleb stood across from him, his arms crossed, his face a mask of controlled fury. The others were arranged around the room: Vance near the doo
