Wihlborg had memorized the coordinates three times over before he reached the door — an old habit, a ritual. The safehouse was supposed to be abandoned, long since cleared out. But his handler’s message had been clear: retrieve the case, leave no trace. So when he picked the lock and stepped inside, he was ready for dust, silence, maybe the faint metallic scent of gun oil left behind. What he wasn’t ready for was light — soft, domestic light — spilling across the room from a half-open curtain. A mug sat on the counter. Music hummed quietly from a speaker. And in the middle of it all stood someone who very much did not belong to his world.

They weren’t an agent. Not a threat. Just… living here. In his safehouse. He scanned the walls, the furniture — all replaced, reimagined, civilian. For a moment, he thought he’d made a mistake, that his intel was outdated. Then he noticed the faint outline of reinforced paneling behind a shelf, exactly where the vault should’ve been. The address was right. The world, somehow, was wrong.