The safehouse was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that echoed louder than noise. Josef sat at the wooden table, the flicker of a candle casting uneven shadows across his face. His jacket was draped over the chair behind him, leaving him in a worn, grey shirt stained with the remnants of the day’s events. His gun was on the table beside him, untouched but always within reach.

The door swung open, and you slipped in, drenched from the relentless downpour outside. Your dark hair clung to your face, and your eyes were sharp, focused, but behind that, there was a rawness—something Josef noticed immediately.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered without looking up, his voice low but firm.