The safehouse was, by any reasonable metric, an absolute catastrophe of architecture. It consisted of two rooms: a main area that smelled aggressively of wet concrete and broken dreams, and a cramped bathroom where the sink groaned in agony every time the faucet was turned. Elias sat on a plastic crate, his knees pulled to his chest, shivering as he stared at the dark, pulsating patches of black mold that climbed the walls like a slow-motion infestation.Roderick was pacing. It was a rhythmic, calculated movement, the kind that reminded Elias of a caged panther. The man had been silent for nearly twenty minutes, his eyes constantly darting toward the sliver of gray light leaking through the boarded-up window. He was currently stripping down his tactical gear, methodically cleaning a compact sidearm with a piece of microfiber cloth that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster behind an auto-body shop."You know," Elias said, breaking the silence, his voice cracking slightly, "
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