Safety looks like motion.
Noise.
Confusion.
It looks like a thousand strangers all moving in different directions, none of them paying enough attention to notice the woman in the gray coat with a bruise under her cheekbone and a gun tucked against her spine.
I keep my head down as I move through the crowd, one hand wrapped around the strap of my bag.
The bag matters.
More than the passport in my pocket.
More than the blood drying under my collar.
More than the ache in my ribs every time I breathe too deep.
Inside the bag is enough information to bring powerful men down.
Which is exactly why they won’t stop hunting me until I’m dead.
I clear the terminal and step into the cold Prague air just as my burner phone vibrates.
One message.
Unknown number.
Don’t go to the church. It’s burned.
I stop walking.
Not because I want to.
Because that message shouldn’t exist.
No one was supposed to know about the church.
No one except one dead handler, one compromised minister, and—
I go still.
No.
Absolutely not.
I stare at the screen until a second message comes through.
East bridge. Ten minutes. Come alone if you still want to live.
There’s no signature.
There doesn’t need to be.
My pulse kicks harder anyway.
Not fear.
Memory.
