The basement light flickered.
I'd been waiting for an hour—or maybe two, or maybe just minutes, time had stopped meaning anything except the space between heartbeats. The man was tied to the chair in the center of the room, his wrists bound with zip ties, his ankles secured to the legs. His head was slumped forward, his breathing shallow, his skin pale in the fluorescent glow.
He'd been tracking for a week.
Name: Jackson Bahrn
Former Institute administrator.
One of the few who'd escaped the purge after Gabriel disappeared.
I'd found him through a contact in Mercy Logistics—a low-level dispatcher who'd traded information for a quick death.
He hadn't gotten the quick death.
No one did, anymore.
I'd stopped offering.
I walked around the chair, my footsteps soft on the concrete, my shadow falling across his face. He stirred. His eyes opened—bloodshot, unfocused, swimming with the drugs I'd used to bring him here.
"Where am I?"
His voice was slurred.
"Where you belong."
"Who are you?"
"Someone who needs answers."
I pulled the knife from my waistband and held it where he could see it. The blade caught the light, gleaming silver and sharp.
"I'm going to ask you some questions. If you answer honestly, this will be quick. If you lie..."
I let the sentence hang.
He understood.
They always understood.
"Gabriel Mire."
The name landed like a stone in still water.
"Is he alive?"
The man's eyes darted around the room—searching for exits, for weapons, for anything that might save him.
"I don't—"
The knife pressed against his throat.
"Is he alive?"
"Yes."
The word came out in a rush.
