Cain didn't sleep. Nights weren't for sleep where he lived. They were for movement, for listening, for setting traps the city couldn't see. He moved the same streets, noting small things—the way rain pooled in one gutter and ignored another, the size of a crack in a pavement stone—that separated being noticed from becoming a story.
Susan lay on the safehouse couch, bandages tight over ribs that wouldn't let her rest. She tried to sleep; the tightness in her jaw betrayed her. Steve hunched at a bank of battered screens, swearing at pixels. Hunter sat in the corner with a crossbow, methodically cleaning and rebuilding it as if that motion steadied him.
They waited. The quiet built pressure in Cain's chest, and his hands steadied with it.
"Feeds are ugly," Steve said. "They're spiking across three quarters. The mask pattern's broadcasting in clusters. Whoever pushed it wants people to look."
The mask was an invitation. Invitations didn't arrive without purpose.
