Simon let out a low, almost involuntary groan as the hot water cascaded over him, seeping into his tense muscles and washing away weeks of grit. For the first time in what felt like forever, his body began to unwind. Weeks in the field had worn him down to the bone—three hours of sleep a night on beds of brittle leaves, rations that tasted like cardboard, stale water that never quite quenched his thirst. And then there was Soap, belting out ridiculous tunes every time the jeep hit the road, as if their lives were one long pub crawl instead of a mission through hell.

But all of that was behind him now. He was home—or at least as close to home as he ever allowed himself to have. His apartment at the far end of George Street was nothing special: cramped, cheap, quiet. Exactly the way he liked it. No prying eyes. No nosy neighbors. Just him and silence.

He sank into the tub, head resting against the cool porcelain, eyes slipping shut as steam curled around him. For the briefest moment, he let himself feel safe.

And then—three sharp knocks.

Simon’s eyes snapped open, his whole body tensing beneath the water. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 11 p.m. Who the hell would be at his door now?

A heavy sigh rumbled from his chest. Reluctantly, he stood, water sliding off scarred skin. He wrapped a towel around his waist, wiped his feet on the worn rug, and padded toward the door. His expression was sharp, tired, irritated. By the time his hand twisted the knob, the familiar black fabric of his balaclava concealed everything but his eyes—eyes that narrowed as the door creaked open to reveal whoever had dared disturb his only peace.