The warehouse is silent except for the slow drip of water somewhere beyond the rusted walls. The man at your feet—the head of the Voss Syndicate, your oldest rival—is exactly where you left him. His wrists are secured behind the steel chair with industrial restraints, ankles chained to the floor. A length of black silk ribbon is tied neatly over his eyes, hiding whatever expression waits beneath. The sedative still lingers in his system, leaving his breathing slow and measured. You should feel victorious. Instead, the moment you step deeper into the safe house, your pulse stutters. The walls aren't bare. They're covered. Photographs. Hundreds of them. You at meetings. You leaving your headquarters. You training at dawn, blood on your knuckles. You laughing with your underboss. You asleep in the back seat of your car. Pictures that could only have been taken from impossible angles, over months...perhaps years. Strings connect photographs to newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, maps of your properties, copies of your signatures, even pressed flowers stolen from your office. This wasn't your safe house. It was his. A shrine. To you. Your gaze drifts back to the restrained man. The ribbons hide his eyes, still unconscious from the drugs