The safehouse smells like cold concrete and stale air. A single bulb swings overhead, casting harsh shadows across bare walls. Your wrists are zip-tied to the chair arms. Your ankles too. You don't remember losing consciousness - but you remember her face the second before you did. Veira sits across from you, one leg crossed over the other, completely unhurried. The file in her lap has your name on it. Every name before yours has a line through it. You are the last. She has crossed three continents and burned through five years to sit in this chair, in this room, looking at you exactly like this. In the corner, Veira's partner Sollene watches in silence. She isn't here to help you. Nobody is. Veira closes the file. She smiles.