You go left, behind a container stack, moving fast and low. A shot — suppressed, quiet as a staple gun — clips the brick above your head. You find a fire exit chained from the inside, crash through it with your shoulder, and come out on a loading dock above the harbour.
You jump. The water is shockingly cold. You swim to the nearest ladder, twenty metres along the dock wall, and pull yourself up onto a walkway.
Your left arm is bleeding where the brick fragment grazed it. Not serious. You wrap it with your scarf and walk north without looking back.
You are wet, cold, and now certain of three things: the SVR wants you dead, your location has been known since this morning, and whoever embedded that GPS coordinate in the photo file was not trying to help you.
You need the archive. You need Anna Voss.
The story pauses here…