The warehouse smelled different in the morning.
Less like secrecy.
More like something that had been exposed.
Dust hung in the air where crates had been shifted. The faint imprint of boots marked the floor from Marcus's men securing the place through the night. Sunlight slipped through the warped planks of the walls, cutting thin lines of gold across the dim interior.
Edric sat where they had left him.
Bound.
Exhausted.
And very aware that whatever protection he thought he had no longer existed.
The moment Marcus stepped inside, the man's shoulders stiffened.
Raphael followed a step behind, gloved hands folded neatly at his back, his presence at odds with the roughness of the space.
"Good morning," Raphael said lightly.
Edric swallowed.
"It doesn't feel like one."
Marcus did not waste time.
"You said you don't keep names."
"I don't," Edric said quickly. "I told you—"
"But you keep records," Raphael cut in.
Edric hesitated.
That was all the confirmation they needed.
