The rain whispered against the windows of the safehouse—soft, rhythmic, like a heartbeat that refused to stop. In the dim light of the lamp, her shadow stretched long across the polished floor. She stood in silence, arms crossed over her chest, every muscle tight with the knowledge that Cassian was late.

Again.

The clock struck 3:17 a.m.

She paced.

Then she heard it—boots crunching gravel just outside, measured, deliberate steps. Her heart skipped as she instinctively reached for the pistol under her jacket. Then, a coded knock.

Three. One. Two.

Her fingers fell away from the weapon.

He was home.

The steel door unlatched, creaking softly. Rain clung to him like shadow as he stepped inside, black coat soaked and clinging to his sharp frame, mask still pulled halfway over his face, eyes the color of broken glass under moonlight—cold, yet unmistakably locked on her.

He removed his gloves slowly, deliberately, exposing scarred knuckles and tattoos that crawled like whispers down his wrist. The serpent. The mark of his bloodline. The one she always traced when he couldn’t sleep.