The call ends, and the silence of the Zurich hotel room presses against Arya's ears. He stands at the window, the Limmat River dark and glassy below, his phone still warm against his palm. His blazer hangs open, tie loosened, belt undone — he hasn't moved since he came on his stomach, the evidence cooling and pulling at his skin. He should shower. He should sleep. Instead, he watches the river and replays the sound of her voice breaking on his name.

His phone buzzes. A video file from Aru. His thumb hovers, then presses play.