Sienna drove alone.
No escort. No backup. No need.
The car was black, silent, armored.
Like her.
She moved through the outskirts—where the streetlights flickered like dying thoughts and the air carried the sharp scent of rot and wet pavement.
The address was tucked behind an old medical clinic long since condemned, a place forgotten by the city and claimed by shadows. The gate was already open.
He kept his word. Always did.
Sienna parked, stepped out, her boots clicking softly on the damp asphalt.
Inside the building, it was dark—but not abandoned. Not anymore.
A figure waited in the lobby.
White coat. Wrinkled. Nervous.
Dr. Greaves. The one Bishop paid to keep the girl safe.
Or hidden. The difference was mostly semantic.
"She's in the back," he said, eyes avoiding Sienna's.
"Any complications?"
"She… she doesn't speak much."
Sienna blinked slowly.
"She doesn't need to."
He handed her a folder. Medical logs. Behavioral notes.
Sienna didn't read them.
She walked.
Down a long, cold hallway lit by one flickering bulb and the faint smell of bleach and sorrow. Her heels echoed.
Room 6B.
She knocked once, then opened the door.
Mia sat on the edge of the bed.
Fifteen now. Taller than expected. Paler. Eyes guarded, hollow in that way only children of addicts know.
She looked up, and for a second—just one—Sienna saw something human there.
Something Bishop wouldn't like.
"You're here to take me to him," Mia said. Not a question.
Sienna nodded.
"Yes."
"Why now?"
Sienna stepped into the room. Sat beside her. Not close.
"Because your father finally looked back."
Mia didn't flinch.
She looked out the window at the ruined skyline.
"Is he… still broken?"
Sienna didn't answer.
She just stood, extended a hand.
Mia didn't take it.
She walked past her, instead.
Eyes forward.
Silent.
The perfect weapon.
The perfect memory.
The perfect trigger.