The safehouse was quieter than usual.
Zubair Hossaini sat at the far end of the room, sharpening his field knife with deliberate care. Sparks of steel slid along the whetstone, each stroke clean and slow. The silence wasn't heavy—but it was tense. Static, like a storm was building behind the walls and no one knew if it was going to break.
Lachlan was already inside when Zubair arrived.
He hadn't said much.
That was new.
The Country A man usually filled the space with some dumb joke or half-hearted complaint about the cold coffee or Elias's smug tone. But tonight, he was sitting with his back against the windowsill, boot tapping against the tile. A chocolate bar sat untouched in his lap.
Zubair watched him, careful and still.
Something was off.
"Where's Elias?" Alexei drawled, entering without knocking. He threw himself across the nearest chair, stretching out like a cat. "Let me guess. Too busy analyzing dirt samples and pollen?"
