The door shut behind us with the muted weight of a decision that couldn't be taken back. Outside, the street was slow to wake, delivery trucks groaning somewhere in the distance, their sound carrying through air that felt rinsed of warmth. The buildings here were squat and weathered, brickwork dulled by grime, windows hazy with years of neglect. A trace of bakery heat still clung to my sleeves from where we'd passed minutes earlier, fading in the morning chill.
James didn't speak, only set a pace meant to disappear into the flow of the city. I kept with him, matching stride, eyes down, noting the pitted sidewalk and every scrap of debris that might be out of place.
We crossed a light that changed without a car in sight. On the corner, a newsstand leaned against the closed front of a grocery, its papers brittle at the edges. Headlines too far to read but somehow carrying the feel of another time.
James veered into a narrower street where the hum of traffic dimmed. The air was tinged with old paper and damp brick. Overhead, lines sagged between windows, shirts and trousers stirring faintly in the breeze.
Halfway along, he slowed, eyes lifting to a second-floor window where a curtain shifted for no reason. He didn't break stride, just placed himself so I was shielded from the view.
We passed through a covered walkway lined with shuttered storefronts, graffiti layered until the colors blurred. Our footsteps softened against the worn pavement, the arcade holding its own stillness.
A cracked courtyard opened ahead, weeds pushing through broken stone. A dry fountain sat at its center, rim marked by pale mineral stains. James' gaze swept the exits, his attention moving without hurry. I felt the folded paper in my pocket, his doing, and touched it unconsciously.
"Still got it?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Then we're not done yet."
We left the courtyard through a side passage where walls closed in tight. Condensation streaked the bricks, a narrow gutter pulling water toward the street beyond. Fire escapes jutted overhead, their rails slick from the damp. James caught sight of a dented tin can placed just inside the gutter's edge. It caught a sliver of light, the kind of detail easy to miss.
"Marker?" I asked quietly.
"Maybe. Or a lure."
We stepped wide around it, shoulders close to the opposite wall.
Emerging into the street, we merged with the morning crowd, faces set on their own destinations. James guided me between two delivery trucks, through a lane scented faintly of coffee and exhaust. A doorway appeared on our left, the paint blistered with age. He opened it and stepped inside.
The space beyond smelled of dry paper and dust. Shelves lined with aging files stretched away into dim light from a cracked window. James moved through the rows, stopped at a cabinet, and drew out a folded map, worn and soft at the edges.
"Not for now," he said, slipping it into his coat. "For when things shift."
We exited through a back door into a spiraling stairwell. The air cooled, carrying the low rush of water. At the bottom, a narrow channel ran beside the path, surface rippling under the light from grated openings above.
James read the space in small details, scuffs, marks, fragments left behind. We passed under an arch where a frayed cloth hung from a pipe. He didn't speak of it, but I caught the flicker in his expression.
The tunnel bent twice before opening into a service chamber. A lone bulb swayed above, its hum faint. James crossed to a rusted door and cracked it open to a fenced embankment, morning light sifting through the wire.
"Keep moving," he said, and we stepped out, letting the city absorb us again.
We took the long way, James weaving us through blocks where every building seemed to lean in on its neighbor. Rusted signage, boarded windows, and the faint tang of old frying oil clung to the air. A shopkeeper swept his doorway without looking up, the bristles scratching at a pavement worn smooth by years of the same motion.
James's focus stayed forward, but I could tell he was counting, doors, alley mouths, the rare working camera mounted above a corner store. He kept us just far enough from anyone else that no conversation could snag on us.
At the next intersection, the walk signal was blinking red, but he stepped out anyway, ignoring the protest of a horn from a delivery van. The driver leaned halfway out his window to shout, then seemed to think better of it when James's head turned just enough for their eyes to meet.
We cut into a narrower lane, the air thickening with the smell of damp cardboard and cold metal. The rattle of something rolling over cobblestones echoed ahead, then stopped abruptly. James slowed, scanning, and I caught the flicker of movement in a doorway before it vanished.
"Keep going," he said under his breath.
The lane bent sharply, spitting us out into a small plaza hemmed in by tall buildings. A street vendor sat hunched over a kettle, steam curling from the spout, the scent of spiced tea threading into the cold. James walked us past without stopping, but his gaze lingered on the mirrored glass of an office block, watching its reflection for anything that didn't belong.
By the far side, he eased me toward a recessed entrance with a steel door scarred by years of use. He rapped twice, waited, then once more. A click sounded from the other side, and the door opened just far enough to let us in.
The air inside was warmer, close, carrying the faint smell of newsprint and cigarette smoke. Rows of battered desks filled the room, each buried under stacks of paper and old filing trays. A man in a threadbare sweater looked up from behind the nearest pile, his eyes darting between us before settling on James.
"You're late," the man said.
"Didn't want company," James replied.
The man's gaze flicked to me but didn't linger. "The package is in the back. No one's touched it."
James's jaw flexed once. "Good. Keep it that way."
We followed the man through a narrow aisle between the desks, the floor soft with old carpet that muffled our steps. The room's heat felt heavier at the back, where a small storage door stood half-open. He pushed it wider, revealing shelves lined with plain boxes, each marked only with faded numbers.
James's hand went to the third shelf, pulling down a box smaller than the rest. He set it on a table without opening it, his fingers resting on the lid.
"This stays with me," he said, low but final.
The man nodded once. "You've got a clear hour, maybe less."
James closed the lid with a firm click, slid the box under his arm, and turned back toward me. His eyes held a sharpness I'd seen before, the look of someone already measuring exits and calculating what could go wrong before we made it to the door.
"Let's go," he said, and there was no space in his tone for hesitation.
We stepped back into the cool daylight, the steel door shutting behind us with a sound that seemed too small for what it now kept inside.