The room was dim.
Not dark. Darkness was absence. Bishop preferred shadow—things half-seen, things your mind filled in wrong.
He stood by the window of a high-rise that no longer had a name, overlooking a city choking on its own smoke. Far below, sirens wailed. Lights blinked. Somewhere, someone screamed. Chicago was a symphony of pain, and Bishop knew every note by heart.
He sipped his drink. Neat. Cold. Unshaken.
Behind him, a man was dying on the floor.
Slowly.
Gurgling.
"Stop trying to speak," Bishop said, calm as prayer. "You've already lied once. You don't get a second verse."
The man twitched once. Then stilled.
Bishop didn't even glance back.
Instead, he watched a monitor flicker to life.
Camera feeds. Aaron in the Bone Yard. Leon with the photo. Matthew, broken and bleeding, whispering to a ghost that wasn't there. Each of them dancing to a rhythm Bishop composed in silence.
A woman's voice spoke behind him. Measured. Icy.
Sienna.
"Reggie has committed. Aaron is moving fast. They're preparing to hit Lab 3 tonight."
Bishop smiled faintly.
"That's the beauty of broken things," he said. "They cut you deeper when you try to fix them."
Sienna crossed the room, handed him a folder. Updates. Routes. Weak points. She was surgical, and he admired that. She never made the mistake of pretending she was moral.
"They'll go in loud," she said. "Reggie's not subtle. Leon's unstable."
Bishop nodded. "Good."
He walked to the map on the far wall. Dozens of pins. Strings. Polaroids.
He tapped one location—circled in red.
"Pull security. Strip the lab. Leave nothing behind."
Sienna's brow arched. "You're letting them win?"
He turned to her. Calm. Focused. Empty.
"I'm letting them believe."
Then he walked to the dying man on the floor, crouched, and gently closed his eyes.
"Hope," he murmured, "is the sharpest hook of all."