“Sure.”
My voice was steady. “I’m in.”
Ronan’s expression shifted — satisfied.
He gave a single nod.
“Good. We’ll gear up, go in separate, stay on comms.”
His gaze flicked toward the encrypted earpiece in his hand.
“Maintain distance from each other once inside. Too many people moving together draws attention.”
He adjusted the device behind his ear.
“Meet back here at zero-two-hundred unless something breaks sooner.”
I nodded. “Understood.”
He stepped into his room to prepare.
I moved quietly through the small apartment and slipped outside onto the narrow concrete porch while he handled final logistics.
The California night wrapped around me like warm silk.
Unlike New York’s constant hum of traffic and neon glare, this area felt calmer.
The air carried faint traces of eucalyptus from nearby trees and a subtle hint of ocean salt drifting inland.
Stars shimmered — more visible here than anywhere I had lived in years.
I tilted my head back and breathed deeply.
The sensation grounded me. The mission. The environment.
The shift from investigator-in-training to active field agent.
It all felt real now.
“Ruslan Baranov,” I whispered toward the open sky.
A small, cold smirk touched my lips. “We’ll be seeing eyeball to eyeball soon.”
Not as husband and wife. Not as victim and captor.
But as adversaries operating in the same physical space.
And this time—
I had leverage.
NIGHT FELL QUICKLY.
Solaris Club dominated the Arts District like an industrial monument to excess.
Three stories of black glass panels and steel framing.
Neon light strips pulsed vertically along the facade like glowing arteries.
