By the time we arrive our contact is already there—local asset, bought with favors and classified intel. He gestures toward the port district, eyes nervous, voice low “A warehouse. Cold on the outside, no guards, looks empty.”

Too empty.

The moment I hear it, I’m already moving, no hesitation. Luther’s voice crackles in my ears, steady but skeptical. “You sure she’s in there?”

I don’t stop, “She’s here.”

I don’t need confirmation, I just feel it.

Overhead, Benji’s got the drone online. “Motion detected. Four moving, one stationary—could be her.”

I draw a breath, centering myself. “I’m going in” I say loud enough for the comms to catch, before slipping through the east door like I’ve done this a hundred times.

Because I have and still, this time’s different.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Hell, it wasn’t even supposed to start like this. Just another morning, you poured coffee—yours black, mine with enough cream to turn it almost white—that old sweater swallowed you whole and you looked...soft, perfect. I kissed you as I passed and you smiled into my mouth. You whispered to come home for dinner and I promised I would.

Then came the briefing—Shanghai, Davian sighting, cross-signals between his network and ours, something called the Rabbit’s Foot went missing, like that was supposed to mean something. Whatever it is we only know that the wrong people want it and we’re behind.

That’s when everything changed.

My phone buzzed—not the agency line, my personal one, unsecure.

Unknown number.

I stepped out, walked fast down the corridor and answered.

Silence. Then a voice I knew better than my own.

“Harry...?” Fragile, trembling, you.

And then, nothing.

Now I’m here, cutting through a warehouse too quiet to be real, every step measured. I sweep the first corner—two guards, talking, laughing. I raise the Glock, two suppressed shots and they fall quietly. Efficient, no alarms. My heartbeat stays steady, but something tightens in my chest. Then a sound, barely there.

A sob.

I move fast, guided more by instinct than intel. I know it’s you before I see you, I feel it.

You’re in the center of the room, tied to a chair—duct tape across your mouth, blood at your temple—you’re slipping under, head low, body limp. But then your eyes flicker open and they find mine. That’s when you exhale, like you were holding your breath this whole time, just waiting for me. I sprint the last few steps, before falling to my knees in front of you. My hands are already moving—tape, gone, ropes, cut. My fingers graze your wrists and linger there, grounding you.

“Hey, it's me...I’m here,” I whisper, more to myself than to you.

You’re shaking.

I lift you carefully, pulling you against me like I can shield you from everything that’s already happened. “You’re safe,” I murmur. “Just hold on to me.”