The world tries to come into focus, but the edges are still blurry and distorted.
I see gray walls, exposed beams. A warehouse maybe?
Shit, where the hell am I?
Matei Ionescu.
The name surfaces through the fog. I remember them saying that name.
I yank against the restraints, twisting my wrists, trying to find any give, but all I find is a pain that shoots up my arms.
"It's no use," a voice says from somewhere in front of me. "You'll just cut yourself."
My eyes adjust enough to make out a figure sitting maybe ten feet away. A man. He is leaning back in a chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, completely relaxed. Like this is a casual meeting and not a kidnapping.
The light catches his face and I can see him properly now. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Sharp eyes that watch me with something between amusement and assessment.
He is wearing a black suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. There is a silver watch on his wrist that looks expensive.
"Who are you?" My voice comes out hoarse, cracked from screaming and running and whatever they hit me with. "Where am I?"
The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even tilt his head in acknowledgment. He just keeps watching me with an expression unreadable.
Then he leans forward slightly.
"Zaria Quinn," he says. Not a question. A statement.
My stomach drops.
I stare at him. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my wrists where the zip ties cut deeper with every panicked breath.
He knows who I am. Not just the name I was given. My actual name. The one the Order pretends doesn’t exist. The one I wasn’t supposed to hear again once they took me in and replaced everything else with their doctrine.
"Why are you in Germany?" he asks.
If he is asking while I'm tied to a chair in what looks like an abandoned warehouse, then he already knows. He knows exactly why I was there. Knows about the Order. Knows about the ritual. Knows about Darragh Killaney.
Which means this isn't an interrogation.
It's a game.
"You already know," I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my chest.
For a moment, silence.
Then he laughs.
It is a low, genuine sound that makes my skin crawl. He turns his head slightly and says something to the other men in the room, men I hadn’t noticed until now, standing in the darker corners of the room. They respond with quick bursts of laughter too.
I look at the man in front of me, confused and furious and so scared I can barely think straight. "What? What are you saying?"
"It’s Romanian," he replies, rising from his chair. "I'd love to teach you, but we don't have that kind of time."
Romanian. Why would they be in Germany? Why would they care about me?
"What would the Romanians want with me?"
He steps closer and crouches down in front of me, bringing himself level with my chair, level with me.
