The rain in Cluj-Napoca stung like needles, slicking the cobblestones and pooling in the cracks of a city caught between old stone and new glass.
Darren and Rachel stepped off a battered tram at dusk, the sky a bruised smear of purple.
Their target was a warehouse on the city's edge, a hulking relic of Romania's industrial past, now home to an underground archivist named Elena.
Once they got inside, they met air thrumming with the low drone of server fans. It was a very displeasing sound, the kind that burrowed into your skull.
"Ah. The pretty face," Elena greeted Darren, causing the duo to glance at each other.
Elena was a wisp of a woman, fourties, dyed gray streaks in her hair like static. Her eyes, sharp as razor wire, sized them up as they entered her maze of server racks.
