The Iron Nest was misnamed. It wasn't a bunker of cold metal, but a sprawling, secluded villa carved into the fog-shrouded cliffs of the Marin Headlands, just across the Golden Gate. Here, the air didn't smell like city exhaust or the iron-scented blood of the Fortress; it smelled of salt-spray from the Pacific, damp eucalyptus, and wild lavender.
I woke up not to the frantic beeping of a heart monitor, but to the soft, rhythmic sound of the Pacific tide crashing against the rocks below. For the first time in a long time, my muscles didn't feel like coiled springs ready to snap.
I turned my head. The space beside me was empty and lonely, the sheets still cold.
