The photo shouldn’t exist.
That’s the first thing my mind latches onto, sharp and insistent, cutting through the noise of the safehouse like a blade. I stand there with it still in my gloved hand, the edges soft from age, the image grainy enough to belong to another life entirely. Another version of me.
But it exists.
Which means everything I thought I understood about when this began is wrong.
“This predates Adrian,” I say quietly.
The words don’t shake. My body does that for me instead.
Damian is already beside me, his gaze locked on the photo. He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t need to. I can feel the shift in him the same way I feel the floor under my boots, solid and suddenly dangerous.
“How long before,” he asks again, slower this time.
“Years,” I repeat. “Before the firm. Befor
