The small monitor on his wrist glowed green. Safe. For now.

Bruce went cold. “My father is dead.”

He stood up, grabbed his worn leather jacket, and nodded once.

Below that, coordinates. A jungle in South America. A date from three weeks ago.

In. Out. Count the rivets on the wall. Name the chemical formula for adrenaline. Think of Betty’s laugh.

A droplet of sweat slid down his temple. His heart rate flickered.

“He doesn’t want to capture you anymore,” she said. “He wants you to lead the mission. Because whatever Krause woke up... it killed her entire team. And the satellite footage shows something that looks very familiar.”

“I’m not a weapon,” Bruce said quietly.