Buenos Aires, ArgentinaElias Thorne wiped down the bar at Café Tortoni, the same way he'd done for the past eight months. In slow circles and methodical. The muscle memory of someone who'd once pipetted genetic material with precision now applied to removing coffee rings from mahogany."Elias!" the owner called from the kitchen. "Table six needs their check!"Not Elias. Here, he was Mateo Silva. Portuguese immigrant, quiet, reliable, asked no questions and answered fewer.He delivered the check with a practiced smile, collected the pesos, and returned to his station behind the espresso machine.Six years.Six years of running, hiding, becoming nobody.And he'd gotten very good at it.Present Day - 6:47 PMThe evening shift was Elias's favorite. Dim lighting, tourists too drunk to notice faces, locals too absorbed in their own conversations to care about the bartender.He made a cortado for a regular, exchanged pleasantries in his carefully practiced Spanish, and glanced at the small t
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