THE dim light in the living room flickered slightly, casting long shadows against the darkened walls. Carlson sat in his leather chair, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other resting over the armrest, fingers tapping lightly. The room was quiet, save for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional rustle of leaves outside. The wounds on his body had mostly healed, but patches of bandages still clung to his skin like reminders of his time in Oswald's custody.

Then, his phone rang.

Carlson frowned, setting down his glass. It was late, and he wasn't expecting any calls. The number on the screen...