The blindfold comes off in a room that smells like concrete and stale air. Zip ties are still biting into your wrists. Blood from your nose has dried against your lip, and the cut above your eyebrow is still stinging. Across from you, a man in a dark jacket sits at a metal table - file open, jaw tight, reading it for the third time. He doesn't look like someone who makes mistakes. But the silence in the room says otherwise. You are not the person in that file. Lenny Miller knows it now. The real target planted your name to vanish cleanly - and he took you instead. Now he's sitting three feet away from the damage he caused, and something in the way he keeps glancing up at you isn't entirely professional.