By the time we touched down, I felt human again. Almost.
The door opened, and I stepped out into humid Charleston air, the kind that wrapped around you like a wet blanket and made you remember why the South moved slow.
A man waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, serious eyes, the kind of stillness that only came from training and experience. He wore jeans and a jacket that didn't quite hide the weapon at his hip.
He looked like me. Or at least, like someone who'd walked the same roads.
"Micah," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Silas."
I shook it. Firm grip. Calluses in the right places.
"We met before?" I asked.
His mouth twitched. "Doubtful."
"Possible."
"Happens all the time."
It did. Contractors, operators, ghosts passing through the same war zones, the same black sites, the same missions no one would ever talk about.
But the déjà vu didn't happen all the time.
I followed him to an SUV parked on the tarmac. Armored. Heavy. The kind of vehicle that could take a hit from an RPG and keep rolling. In some parts of the world, it would've been called a tank.
I climbed into the passenger seat. Silas got behind the wheel.
We drove in silence.
If I'd been expecting answers, I wasn't getting them. Silas was a mirror—silent, serious, observing everything and saying nothing.
Fine by me.
The road wound through lowcountry—marsh and oak trees, estates hidden behind gates and hedges, the occasional glimpse of water glinting in the distance. Charleston was money and secrets, history and power wrapped up in humidity and Southern charm.
Eventually, we turned down a long drive.
The gates opened without Silas touching anything. We rolled through, and the place unfolded in front of me like something out of a different century.
Massive. Stone and wood and glass, sprawling across the property like it had grown there instead of being built. Manicured grounds. Security that didn't advertise itself but was everywhere, if you knew how to look.
And off to one side, construction. Cranes. Workers. Fresh dirt and new foundations.
"What's the construction?" I asked.
Silas didn't look at me. "We bought out the neighbors. Expanding."
I filed that away.
We parked out front. Silas killed the engine and got out without a word. I followed.
The front door opened before we reached it. A butler—an actual fucking butler—stepped aside and let us in.
The entryway was as big as most houses. High ceilings. Marble floors. A staircase that curved up like something out of a movie. And in the corner, a glass tank with a black snake coiled inside, sleek and still.
I stared at it for a second. Could've been a viper. Probably wasn't—vipers made poor pets, and whoever ran this place didn't strike me as the type to keep things that couldn't be controlled.
