Jaxon The surveillance footage from the Iron & Ink parking lot plays on Silas’s laptop for the third time, and the three of us watch the same forty-second clip in silence. Grainy, timestamped two-seventeen in the morning, a figure in a dark hoodie crouches near the side entrance, stays low for under a minute, then disappears back the way he came. Forty minutes later, Dez found it. Package the size of a shoebox, taped to the underside of the exterior generator housing. Crude construction but functional enough to have taken out the whole left side of the building if it had gone off at capacity. Dez was pulling a double. He’d gone around back for a smoke break. He’s currently in a hospital bed with a ruptured eardrum and burns up his left forearm. Dez, who has worked that door for six years and never once called in sick. I lean back in my chair and say nothing. The clip loops again. “Southside,” Cassian says. Not a question. He rarely speaks. When he does, you know it’s necess
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