131.

Luri's apartment sat on the twelfth floor of a modest building in the city's quieter district—a place where the hustle of government agents, mercenaries, and twisted geniuses didn't quite reach. Or at least, not directly.

Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of coffee and fresh fabric softener. The curtains fluttered in the wind, and the hum of a fan rotated quietly in the corner. Books and case files were scattered on the coffee table, some open, some bookmarked with sticky notes, others scribbled over with highlighter pens in Luri's neat handwriting.