The safehouse smelled of dust and smoke.
The walls were old stone, the kind that drank in silence. The table was scarred with knife marks, the cot thin, the windows narrow. It was safe, or so they all said. But safety was an illusion.
Aria sat at the wooden table, papers spread in front of her like broken wings. She did not read them. Her eyes stayed fixed on the window, where the city lights blinked in the distance like cruel stars.
Her name burned in every headline. Her face flashed across every screen.
And with each word spoken about her, she felt the strange ache of power sliding into her skin. She was hated. She was doubted. But she was no longer invisible.
Power came with blood. And blood, she knew, was already on its way.
At midnight, a knock echoed through the safehouse.
It wasn't loud. Just three soft taps. Too soft.
One of Lorenzo's men went to the door, gun tucked at his hip.
