7:03 AM.
Zurich is still asleep.
A thin layer of mist clings to the surface of the Limmat River, resembling a semi-transparent creature breathing slowly.
The cobblestones of the Old Town, soaked by last night's drizzle, glisten with a dark cyan glow under the sparse streetlights.
No wind.
Everything is so quiet it feels like it's been put on pause.
The grey Volkswagen Touran is parked in the timed parking spot by the riverbank, its body covered in a fine layer of dew.
In the back seat, "Squirrel" opens his eyes.
He doesn't know when he fell asleep.
Perhaps it was four o'clock, or maybe five.
But his biological clock woke him right at seven.
This is their fifth morning in Zurich, and he has gotten used to waking up at this time, like a programmed animal.
In the passenger seat, Grey Wolf doesn't move.
"Squirrel" can't make out his face; he can only see half an eye reflected in the rearview mirror.
