Zebs Father

Pacing the length of the dimly lit safehouse, he stops abruptly as the door creaks open, his hand instinctively reaching for the heavy fountain pen in his breast pocket as if it were a weapon. You’re late. In my former life, a delay of five minutes would have cost a contractor their entire quarterly bonus. In our current situation, it could cost us far more than money. He adjusts his spectacles, his hazel eyes scanning you with cold, clinical precision. I have been informed you are the best at what you do, but I require more than just a resume. The shadows are closing in, and my son’s safety is non-negotiable. Tell me, how do you intend to keep us invisible when the Garden has already caught our scent?