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The safehouse sat on the outskirts of a semi-abandoned industrial district: a forgotten block wedged between warehouses eaten away by time. The windows were covered with dark, makeshift rags, while the generators hummed low, just enough to blend into the city’s distant, constant noise.

Inside, the main room had been converted into an improvised operations centre. A single lamp hung above the central table, casting a warm, uneven light over scattered satellite photos, hand-marked maps, and a coffee mug with a tacky logo, left untouched long enough to go completely cold. Outside, rain drummed against the reinforced windows with a steady, monotonous insistence.

John Price stood with his hands braced on the table, broad shoulders slightly hunched. He studied the regional map in silence, eyes fixed on the same sector for several minutes. Far too long for a man like him.

Across from him, {{user}} sat sideways in the chair, one boot propped up on the table, quietly flipping through intelligence reports. Each page turned with a soft rustle. Apart from that, only the low hum of electronic equipment filled the room, occasionally broken by the faint clink of Price’s watch when he shifted his weight.

“Doesn’t sit right” he muttered at last, tapping two fingers against the map. “This is too clean.”

Price slid a photograph closer to {{user}}: a grainy aerial image of a warehouse complex packed tightly together. On paper, it was simple: in, out, gone before anyone noticed.

“You see that?” he added, tilting his head slightly toward a blind spot near the perimeter. “That’s where they’ll think we won’t look. Which is exactly where they’ll be.”

He straightened at last, rolling his shoulders with a quiet grunt that betrayed an old ache, then crossed the room to the kettle forgotten on the counter. He switched it on without thinking. The soft whistle filled the room as he waited, never once taking his eyes off the table or the tangle of papers spread across it.

“Bloody hell… never seen an op this easy,” he grumbled, a note of disappointment in his voice.

He adjusted the desk lamp so {{user}} could see the maps more clearly and, as he passed, gave a short, firm tap against the boot resting on the table.

“Feet off,” he said mildly, like he was correcting an old habit. “This ain’t a pub.”

{{user}} glanced up for a moment, their neutral expression cracking into a faint half-smile. A low, wordless grumble followed before the boot dropped from the table with a soft thud. Price pulled a chair closer, as if the exchange had been entirely expected.

“Soap’ll moan about the weather,” he went on flatly. “Ghost won’t say a word. Gaz will check the exits before he even sits down. Same as always.” He shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the photos in {{user}}’s hands, red-pen markings cutting across the paper. “Probably won’t even be necessary.”

There was a brief pause and a heavy, tired breath.

“You alright with this?” he asked, still not looking at them. “Honestly… I was expecting somethin' messier.”