We climbed down a rusted iron ladder and crossed the wet gravel of the tracks.

Victor led me to a small, nondescript brick building squeezed between two larger warehouses.

The wooden door was thick, reinforced with steel bands that had started to peel.

He reached into a small gap in the brickwork and pressed a hidden button.

A heavy, mechanical lock clicked open inside the doorframe.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the dry, warm air of the safehouse.

The room was small, lit only by the soft green glow of computer monitors huming in the corner.

In the center of the room sat a steel desk with a heavy iron lockbox.

“This is it,” Victor said, collapsing into a wooden chair.

His hands were shaking violently as he wiped the rain from his forehead.

“The truth is in that box, Elena.”

I stood near the door, my weapon still drawn, watching him closely.

“The truth about my brother’s death,” I said, my voice tight and cold.

“You signed the execution order, Victor. I saw the documents in the bureau archives.”