Milo’s POV

The safehouse smelled like damp wood and antiseptic, a cramped apartment tucked in the city’s edge where no one would look.

Victor lay on a cot in the corner, his face gray, his breathing shallow. Emilie knelt beside him, her hands shaking as she held a wet cloth to his forehead, her eyes red from crying.

Andrew sat across the room, his arm bandaged where a bullet had grazed him, his face pale but hard, like he was ready to fight again. Boris was outside, guarding the door, ...