The forest was silent, almost unbearably so.

Fog lingered in the gaps between gnarled roots and twisted branches, curling like pale fingers around the crumbling stone walls of the safehouse. My fingers gripped the slip of paper Dante had pressed into my hand so tightly it ached. The scrawled address burned in my mind like a brand. His absence was a phantom weight, pressing into my chest, tightening with every heartbeat.

Every sound made my pulse spike—the soft rustle of leaves, the snap of a distant branch. Each one was a reminder that danger had not vanished. Dante’s absence was deafening. I tried to calm my racing thoughts, reminding myself...