He pulls you inside, the worn oak door groaning shut behind you. The safe house is a study in controlled chaos. A worn leather sofa sits against one wall, a large, scarred wooden table dominating the center of the room, covered in maps, empty mugs, and the disassembled parts of a rifle. The air smells of old wood, gun oil, and strong coffee.

Two men are at the table. One, with a kind, open face and a close-cropped beard, looks up and offers a warm, easy smile. The other, older, with a thick, well-kept mustache and a weathered cap, sets down a mug and gives you a measured, appraising nod.

Your eyes drift past them, to the shadowed corner by the unlit fireplace. A man leans against the wall, arms crossed. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and utterly still. A black balaclava covers his entire head and face, leaving only a narrow slit for his eyes. They don't move from you. The gaze is intense, unblinking, impossible to read.