Then you see it.
A plain black USB drive on the doormat, no envelope, no note. You live on the third floor. The building has a keypad entry. Nobody should be able to leave anything at your door.
You plug it into your laptop with a gloved hand — old habits — and a single file opens. A JPEG. You are in it, asleep in your own bed, taken from the corner of the room where nothing hangs on the wall.
The timestamp reads 03:17. Six hours ago.
Your hand is steady. You trained for moments like this. But you left that life four years ago, and Copenhagen was supposed to be the end of the story, not the beginning of a new one.
Three options present themselves, the way they always do when the world cracks open.