I get off at the McAllister and Pierce stop and walk the few blocks to the address I’ve been given. It looks like a residential house—one of those sweepingly beautiful, reconstructed Victorian houses, painted in pastel colors. I’ve always admired them, and when I came into a shocking amount of money for my role in the VivaFog, I debated buying one. But Tila scoffed, thought they looked like gingerbread houses, and so I held off. I wonder now why I let her talk me out of it. It didn’t seem important. How many times have I let her decide for me what I really want? Even now, I’m not making my own decisions, not really. This was all started by my sister, without her telling me anything.

I shake my head of the cobwebs of thoughts and climb the stairs, knocking on the door. It swings open on its own. I step in cautiously, a shiver running down my spine. The door closes behind me. Inside, the hallway is empty. No picture frames on the walls, no flowers, no tables strewn with personal items.

“In the kitchen,” a male voice calls.

I walk through, trying to keep my tread firm rather than hesitant. A man leans against the table, arms crossed over his chest. He’s muscled, with strong eyebrows, a slightly hooked nose, and scars on his knuckles and forearms that, in this city of image perfectionists, draw my eyes.

“Hello,” he says, pleasantly enough.

“Hi,” I say hesitantly. It seems very informal after all the interrogation rooms at the police station. The kitchen looks as stark and un-lived-in as the hallway.

“I’m Detective Nazarin,” he says, moving toward me and holding out his hand. I take it. His handshake is warm and firm.

“The undercover agent,” I say, feeling stupid.

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate. I wonder what he’s done as part of the Ratel. What I might have to do, now that I’m joining him. He sees me eye the door nervously. “We’re the only ones here.”

“I thought there’d be others.” A whole team, determined to keep me safe.

“There will be. But not until they’re needed. Do you want a drink?”

I do, but I shake my head, clasping my hands into fists. I’m shaking again, and it irritates me, but being here means it’s real. It’s happening. I’m about to start training with this scarred stranger who could probably snap my neck without breaking a sweat.

“Do you want to go to a room and settle in, or have a tour and get started?”

“I’ll get started.” It’s not like I’d be able to relax here.

He walks ahead of me, his stride sure and powerful.