Nick stood alone in the dim, narrow corridor of the rundown 14th Avenue apartment building long after Arora and Miso's hurried footsteps had faded down the concrete stairwell. The ambient air in the hallway was heavy with the stale stench of damp plaster, rotting timber, and decades of urban neglect. Overhead, a solitary fluorescent tube hummed with a harsh, flickering yellow light, casting long, nervous shadows across the peeling wallpaper.
Nick adjusted his grip on the heavy tactical case resting in his left hand—the sealed container housing Jennie's leather diaries, the international perfume shipping invoices, and the medical documentation. Then, he turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto the one person who hadn't moved a single inch since Arora had departed.
Jack.
