There was a room on the third floor of a building that had once been a hotel, back before the system turned the world into something that killed people for a living. Jorik had taken it over six weeks ago, clearing out the other tenants, killing them, of course.
The walls were bare now. The furniture that hadn't been useful was pushed into a corner. What remained was a table covered in maps, a chair, and a cot that Jorik rarely used because he didn't sleep the way he used to.
He stood at the table, tracing a route on the map of Kingsgate, when the door opened without a knock.
Two of his people came in at the same time, almost crashing in the doorway. That alone told him something was wrong, because his people did not rush usually, as things went bad only when Reidar was involved, but he was not there now.
