Cain leaned against the broken wall of an abandoned workshop. His blade was clean again, though the air still smelled of iron and smoke. He kept his eyes on the street beyond, where shadows pooled between leaning buildings. The city's rhythm hadn't slowed—it never did. But beneath that rhythm, Cain heard something off-beat.
Hunter crouched a few meters away, bow across his knees. He didn't ask questions. He never did when Cain's focus was fixed on something unseen. He simply waited, listening, adjusting.
Susan leaned back against the far side of the room, hood shadowing her face. Her hand rested on her weapon, but she hadn't drawn it. She watched Cain instead of the street. She knew the signs—when his silence stretched long, it meant more than patience. It meant calculation.
Steve's voice broke in through the comm. "Movement on the western grid. Signals faint, but I'm seeing distortions. Same signature as the phantom's scouts."
Cain didn't flinch. "Direction?"
