Ezra sat in the quiet of his hotel room, the steam from his teacup curling faintly upward. He sipped slowly, the warmth settling in his chest, though his mind was far from calm. The man from earlier—Justin—was a shadow that refused to leave. Every instinct screamed of danger, as if he had stared into the eyes of a predator.
On the table lay his phone, with a stolen photograph of Justin on the screen. Ezra had already run every search possible, combing through networks, hidden registries, and even underworld archives—but nothing. No match. No identity.
That only confirmed his suspicion: the man was dangerous enough to erase his presence.
Ezra exhaled, set his cup down, and dialed a number he hadn't touched in three months.
Far away, in a lavish apartment perched above the glittering city, a phone buzzed on a silk-covered nightstand. A woman stirred, her bare skin pale under the dim lamp. She frowned at the caller ID.
