“It is working,” I whispered, looking out the dark window.

Marcus tapped on the glass from the outside, signaling that the perimeter of the safehouse was secure.

We got out of the vehicle and walked quickly up the cracked concrete steps.

The autumn air was cold, carrying the damp scent of fallen leaves and coming rain.

Inside, the house was dark and smelled of old wood, floor polish, and dust.

Marcus locked the heavy deadbolt behind us and drew the thick, light-blocking curtains.

“I will be in the kitchen,” Marcus said, his footsteps fading down the creaking hallway.

Dante turned on a single brass lamp in the corner of the small living room.

The yellow light cast long, dramatic shadows across the worn wooden floorboards.

I sat on the edge of a faded green sofa, my hands tucked between my knees to keep them from shaking.

Dante sat beside me, the leather of his dark jacket creaking in the quiet room.

He looked at me, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lamp.