The coordinates resolve into something familiar in the worst possible way.
An abandoned subway station. One that never made it onto tourist maps. Half flooded when the city rerouted underground lines years ago. The kind of place people forget exists until they need somewhere no one will hear screaming.
I stare at the satellite image on Damian’s tablet as if distance might soften it. It does not.
“He chose it on purpose,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” Damian replies.
The room smells like coffee that has gone cold and metal that has been handled too often. The safe house hums with preparation, a low vibration that settles into my bones. Boots being laced tight enough to bite. Vests adjusted with practiced tugs. Weapons checked and rechecked, not out of doubt, but ritual. Radios tested in voices
