The safehouse was dark. Only one lamp burned on the table. It cast a circle of yellow light. Everything outside that circle was shadow. Dante sat in the center of the light. Papers were spread before him. Maps. Routes. Schedules. He was tracing a line with a pen. The ink was black. The paper was white. His hand did not shake.
Sophie sat across from him. She was not working. She was reading a book. The cover was worn. The pages were soft. She turned a page. The sound was quiet. Like a breath escaping. They did not speak. They had not spoken for an hour. The silence was not empty. It was heavy. It was shared. It felt like a blanket.
The clock on the wall ticked. One second. Two seconds. The sound measured the night. Outside, the rain had stopped. The city was sleeping. Only this room was awake. Dante looked up. He watched her read. Her hair fell over her face. She tucked it behind her ear. The movement was slow. Natural. He memorized the gesture.
Kairo: Observation noted.
