The storm had passed, leaving behind a silence so heavy it almost felt wrong.
Morning light crept through the windows in thin, hesitant streaks, falling over the safehouse's worn wooden floors. The air smelled faintly of rain and ash, the remnants of a night that had burned too long.
Isabella stood by the sink, her fingers wrapped around a chipped mug. The warmth of the tea seeped through her palms, grounding her against the whirl of everything inside her chest.
Sebastian was by the doorway, sleeves rolled up, talking quietly into his earpiece his voice low, firm, commanding. But even from across the room, she could see the way his shoulders tensed, the restless energy beneath his calm.
He hadn't slept much. Neither of them had.
"No movement on the northern route?" He paused, listening. "Good. Keep eyes on every exit. I don't care if it's quiet that's when she strikes."
He caught Isabella's gaze and gave a small, weary smile. "Morning."
