A fresh trail shows up by Tuesday - Rafe follows it without hesitation.
Real cleanliness isn't sleek. It carries grain, uneven edges, traces of effort made in hard settings instead of tidy rooms. Years taught me how thin the line sits between what seems true and what actually holds up - narrow enough to overlook, wide enough to trip over.
I manage it.
A small group runs their operation from a shipping company, just off the southern port. Three kilometers down the road, behind paperwork and cargo logs. Four involved. Not all know what they're really part of. Two have ties to the people who took my brother - at least that is what I tell Rafe. Truth has room to bend when it holds pieces of fact. These two? They are linked to someone, somewhere in a chain. Only not the link I claim.
The one who saw it all - that's the person I'm looking for.
Something inside him stays unaware. Eight weeks back, he stood near an event tying him to me - threads so tight they could unravel every plan made since then, should anyone trace them. What he does recognize: shipments pass through his hands without explanations. Payments arrive clean. That suits him fine. Details stay buried on purpose.
Yet there it was, caught in his gaze.
A person who watches but does not get it - that sort is riskiest when giving accounts, since a few well-placed words from someone clever could reshape their grasp completely out of nowhere.
At nine sharp, I'm walking into Rafe's office with the lead in hand. The morning light cuts across his desk just as I place it down. He looks up without surprise. Paper settles on wood under quiet fingers. A clock ticks behind me, slow and steady.
Out of nowhere, she speaks up - like a sister might after holding back too long. Not fast, not slow, just steady, like each word has weight. Here is where they were seen. These are the people involved. From there, it ties into what her brother mentioned last time he called. A trail linked to boats moving cargo along specific paths. Details spill now, because waiting feels worse than speaking.
Rafe listens without interrupting.
After I'm done, his eyes move to the details, pause there briefly, before shifting up toward my face.
"How long have you had this?" he says.
"I've been trying to verify it," I say. "Before I brought it to you. I didn't want to send your people after something that turned out to be nothing."
A beat passes - then another - before he looks away. His eyes stay locked on mine past the point of reply.
After that, the man reaches for his phone.
That night, the team sets out. Left behind again - Rafe says nothing, so neither do I, since speaking up risks too much. My role is already clear. Trying to step into their work now would turn me from useful to questionable, and questions bring attention nobody wants.
Inside the four walls, I stay. Stillness fills the space while time moves slow. Waiting happens without rushing it.
Waiting is something I handle well, yet tonight feels unlike before. It isn't nerves - nerves aren't allowed here. More like focus, sharp and still, as if standing at the rim of what you began, eyes fixed on its slow drift into shadow.
Flying forward without pause. Progress holds steady on track.
Few think she'll make it till morning. Nightfall might be her end.
Stillness comes first, like always - low, exact, no extra words. That matters now. There is no other path open. This step follows because staying alive sets every standard worth following.
Almost I trust every bit of it fully.
Almost.
It hurts too much to say his name. The one who saw it happen. Calling him by name turns him into someone real, which makes the distance harder to keep. He slips through my control like water. A risk I can't balance. Something fraying at the edge of a system built on tight edges.
He is not a person.
This is what I keep thinking when Gregor raps on the door at exactly eleven fifteen.
"It's done," he says. "Mr. Volkov wants a debrief in the morning."
My head moves up once. He walks out, that man called Gregor.
Outside, streetlights hum under a slow sky while I stay seated by the glass. The city breathes in uneven pulses, its rhythm noted without comment. Each night gets filed like receipts - flat facts, no margins, just lines moving ahead. This one slips into place beside the rest.
A figure from Rafe's group walks past my doorway just then.
There he goes again. That quiet moment stretches - longer than it should if he were just passing by. After that, movement resumes along the hall.
Frozen in place, I do not move at all.
A moment held still - maybe just a loose lace needing fix. Could be the ring of a device pulling attention sideways. One among many tiny halts folks do in hallways, for causes that don't touch the one waiting by the next doorway.
Probably.
Still, I put it on the map.
Out there past the glass, the city spreads under a hazy glow while my breath settles into a quiet rhythm. Thoughts drift ahead to morning, when voices will exchange pieces of truth across a table. Rafe arrives with reports - facts gathered by those he trusts - and words form slowly in my mind to answer them. Meaning takes shape in silence before spoken.
Footsteps echo after the click of the first snare snapping shut.
Flying ahead now comes the task. It steps on. Progress shows up again.
This feels like plenty, I think.