The room was dim—lit only by the city bleeding through floor-to-ceiling glass. Cold. Detached. Watching. Beneath the brass lamp’s harsh glow lay scattered traces of a darker world — floor plans, tablet displays, satellite images, surveillance prints. Some stamped in red: ACTIVE. DECEASED.
Ashcroft stood with a glass of whiskey in hand, sleeves pushed up, a hint of ink curling beneath the edge of his watch. The digital file glowed in front of him, but his eyes had drifted—no longer reading, just calculating.
“Beckett’s just a loose thread. Random. Disposable. An arrogant nobody who tangled with the wrong man,” he muttered, voice low.
Damien didn’t look up. He studied the floor plan, its corners curling with age, a jagged line of ink slicing through the middle.
“He’s nobody. Twelve days,
