The safe house was a cramped, dimly lit apartment on the outskirts of the city, far from the neon glow of Manhattan’s skyline. The air smelled of stale coffee and old cigarette smoke, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper that had once been a deep burgundy but was now faded to a dull, sickly brown. A single flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows that stretched across the cracked linoleum floor. Dante had chosen this place for its anonymity—no one would think to look for them here, not in this forgotten corner of the city where the desperate and the damned went to hide. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the occasional drip of water from a leaky pipe in the bathroom.