Y/n's apartment sat on the fourth floor of a building that had seen better decades. The radiator clanked and hissed in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the November chill seeping through the single-pane windows.

On the kitchen counter, beside a half-empty mug of tea gone cold, a plain white envelope waited. No stamp. No return address. Just Y/n's name written in Gabriel's precise, unhurried hand.

The knock at the door came not from the hallway, but from the fire escape — three sharp raps against the glass, rhythmic and deliberate. A code. Urgent, but not panicked.

The envelope on the counter seemed heavier now.