Safehouse 9-F smelled like mothballs and burnt mesh.
The old textile factory above hadn't spun thread in twenty years, but its concrete skeleton still groaned whenever the wind hit the shattered windows just right. Hernan stood at the center of the floor, surrounded by dusty blueprints, rusted spools, and the faint hum of dehumidifiers Nico had patched together from scrap. A single bulb flickered overhead, out of sync with the others — like it knew exactly what they were doing.
Aya arrived first. She didn't speak, just gave a nod and crossed to the cracked table in the corner. Her boots were scuffed. Her burn wound — hidden under layers — made her left arm stiff, her movements measured. She hadn't looked Renz in the eye since the freight corridor op.
That suited Hernan just fine.
Renz entered twenty seconds later.
Always twenty.
