I get in my car and drive.
The address leads to an abandoned processing plant on the outskirts of the industrial district.
The building is three stories of crumbling concrete and broken windows. Rust bleeds down the walls in long orange streaks. The parking lot is empty except for two black vehicles with Ministry plates.
I approach on foot. No weapons visible, though I'm carrying six: knife at the hip, backup in my boot, garrote in my collar, two ceramic blades sewn into my jacket lining, and a micro-injector loaded with a paralytic agent strapped to my inner forearm.
Webb will expect all of them. He trained me. He knows my loadout.
What he might not expect is what I'm willing to do with them.
The front entrance is unlocked. I push through into a big space that might have been a factory floor once. Now it's just emptinessand echoes, concrete pillars holding up a ceiling lost in shadow.
Webb stands in the center of the room. Behind him, strapped to a metal table under harsh white lights, is Elliot.
I see the collar first.
Black metal band around his throat, studded with electronics, small lights blinking in sequence. The same model they used on assets in the Foundry when we needed to ensure compliance. Low settings cause pain. Medium settings cause paralysis. High settings stop the heart.
Then I see his face.
Pale. Tear-streaked. Eyes wide with terror and hope when he sees me.
"Jace." His voice is raw, scraped out. "Don't—"
"Quiet." Webb doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. He holds up a small device, thumb resting on a button. "The collar is set to medium. One press and he loses the ability to breathe. Two presses and his heart stops."
I stop walking. Ten meters between me and Webb. Twelve between me and Elliot.
"I'm here," I say. "Let him go."
"Not yet." Webb gestures to a chair positioned in front of the table. "Sit. We're going to have a conversation."
I sit. The metal is cold through my clothes.
Webb circles me slowly, the way he used to circle during training exercises. Looking for weaknesses. Testing responses.
"You were my greatest success," he says.
"And now?"
"Now you're proof that we failed." He stops in front of me, disappointment carved into his gaunt features. "Something went wrong. Some flaw in the conditioning that we didn't catch. And it manifested in the worst possible way: attachment."
"I'm not attached."
"Don't insult my intelligence." He nods toward Elliot. "You claimed an asset outside protocol. You hid him in your house. You tortured a civilian for information that would keep him alive. And now you're sitting in this chair, because I threatened to hurt him." He shakes his head. "That's not operational behavior. That's sentiment."
I don't respond. There's nothing to say. He's right.
"The question is what to do about it." Webb pulls a tablet from his coat, taps the screen, shows me what's displayed. "I've prepared a proposal. A way for both of us to get what we want."
The screen shows two photographs.
Briar Harrington. Landon Thompson.
I recognize Briar immediately. House Harrington, Ministry of Design. One of Jagger's colleagues. We've never worked together directly, but I know his reputation: smart, ruthless, loyal to the family.
The other face is unfamiliar. Young, nervous-looking, glasses perched on a thin nose. The file beneath his photo identifies him as an accountant. Former forensic auditor. Currently employed by Briar through the Ministry.
