Daphne POV
It's been almost five years in this world.
And in the last few months, I've spent more time in South America than I ever planned to. What started as a quick infiltration bloomed into something messier, more tangled.
There was no point in remaining in a hotel suite, we got an apartment.
The apartment we settled into is deceptively normal. Two bedrooms, minimal décor, a kitchen that smells like cheap spices and stronger memories. Estela insisted on decorating it with soft colors—pale green curtains, peach bedsheets, a ridiculous fluffy rug that somehow ended up covered in weapons and blueprints by week two.
It feels like a real home. That's the problem.
Now we have to leave.
I look over my shoulder and see her—Estela. She's crouched by the table, packing ammunition with clinical precision, jaw tight, brows furrowed. She hasn't spoken to me since last night. Not properly.
"I told you not to go back to the docks alone," she had snapped.
