They never could.
Silas stepped out of his office and into the lobby.
Jace stood near the seating area, offering bottled water to two teenagers flanked by officers and counselors. Both looked exhausted. Hollowed out. But alive.
That alone mattered.
Though they recognized Silas the moment he entered, neither said a word. They never did. No one ever did.
They were grateful. That was enough.
Silas approached the officers—familiar faces he’d worked alongside countless times.
“They’ve been checked thoroughly?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” one of them replied. “Medically cleared. No immediate threats.”
Silas nodded once and turned toward the kids.
The girl sat closest. Eleven years old. Long, dirty-blonde hair tangled from neglect. Her shoulders were too small beneath the oversized hoodie she wore.
Beside her sat Michael—fifteen, tall for his age, dark hair falling into tired eyes. Both malnourished. Both guarded.
Both breathing.
Silas crouched slightly so he was level with them, his presence calm, unthreatening.
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You’re safe now.”
They watched him closely.
“My colleagues and I will take care of you,” he continued. “You won’t be alone anymore.”
For the first time that day, Silas allowed himself a quiet breath of relief.
Alive was enough.
Two Days Earlier…
Silas hated warehouses.
Too much space. Too many shadows. Too many places for fear to settle.
The air was damp, heavy with oil and rust, the kind of place people forgot existed—which was exactly why traffickers loved it.
Silas stood just inside the open loading bay, dressed in black from head to toe. No suit tonight. No polished image. Just a tactical jacket, gloves pulled tight, his presence calm but lethal.
“Confirm,” he said quietly.
Jace’s voice crackled through the earpiece.
“Two victims. Separated. Buyers are scheduled to move them within the hour. Private transport. France.”
Silas’s jaw tightened.
Children didn’t survive those flights.
“Layouts?” he asked.
