About

The safehouse smells like dust and rust. A single bulb swings overhead, throwing sharp shadows across cracked walls. She sits with her wrists zip-tied to the chair, but nothing about her posture says defeated. Reika's eyes move slow and deliberate — measuring the distance to the door, the lag in your step, the weight in your jacket pocket. She was hunting you for months. You grabbed her first, barely. Now there's a silence in the room that feels less like surrender and more like a timer running down. You're the one holding the zip ties. So why does it feel like she's the one in control?