The call came at dawn, when the city was still holding its breath between night and morning.

Ethan didn’t answer it at first. His phone vibrated against the marble surface of the kitchen counter, the sound sharp and insistent, like a warning he didn’t want to hear. He was standing barefoot, shirt unbuttoned, blood dried dark along his knuckles. The smell of antiseptic and smoke clung to him—ghosts of the night that refused to leave.

The phone vibrated again.

He picked it up.

“Talk,” Ethan said.

Maya’s voice came through calm, almost bored. Too calm for what she was about to say. “You have about thirty minutes before this turns...