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Ava's place smelled like burnt coffee and whatever cleaning solvent she used to scrub blood off keyboards.
I stood in her doorway with the key still warm in my pocket. She hadn't invited me in. Just looked at me with those dark eyes that could price a man's secrets down to the gram.
"You look like shit," she said.
"Thanks."
"I mean it. You look like you haven't slept in three days."
She wasn't wrong. Technically I'd slept fine. I'd just died twice since then.
"Can I come in or are we doing this in the hall?"
She stepped back. The apartment was small, clean in that specific way that meant she never let anyone stay long enough to make a mess. Two monitors on the desk. A couch that had never been slept on. Kitchen counter with one mug, one plate in the drying rack.
I shut the door behind me.
"Show me," she said.
I pulled out the key. The metal was still discolored from the fire, black along the teeth, but the serial number was readable if you knew where to look.
Ava took it without touching my hand. She walked to the desk, flipped on a lamp, and held it under the light.
"This is a morgue sublevel key," she said. "Pre-2015 issue. They stopped making these when they upgraded the locks."
"You said it opens a door."
"I said it *opens* a door. I didn't say the door still exists."
I felt something cold slide down my spine.
"What does that mean?"
Ava set the key on the desk. She turned around, leaned back against the edge, arms crossed. She was wearing a thin black sweater and jeans. No shoes. Like I'd interrupted her night in.
"It means the city morgue got remodeled four years ago. They sealed off the old sublevels. Officially, they're condemned. Structurally unsound, full of asbestos, pick your bureaucratic excuse."
"And unofficially?"
"Unofficially, some doors still open if you know which stairs to take."
I stepped closer. She didn't move.
"I need to get down there."
"Why?"
"Because someone went through a lot of trouble to make sure I found this key."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I've got."
Her eyes narrowed. I could see her doing the math. She'd known me for two years, mostly through back-channel work. I paid well. I didn't ask questions about her sources. And I'd never showed up at her door at eleven PM with a burnt key and a death wish in my eyes.
"You're different," she said.
"What?"
"Since yesterday. You're different. I can't put my finger on it, but something's off."
My pulse kicked up. She was too good at reading people. That was the problem with using an informant this sharp. She noticed things.
"I'm tired," I said. "Same as everyone."
"No." She pushed off the desk, closed the distance between us. We were maybe a foot apart now. I could smell her shampoo, something faintly citrus, and underneath that the faint acrid tang of gun oil. "You're scared. And you don't scare easy."
I didn't answer.
"What happened in Prague?" she asked.
My throat went tight.
"How do you know about Prague?"
"Because I'm good at my job. You went dark for eighteen hours, then you pinged back online with a new phone and a key that shouldn't exist. So I'll ask again. What happened?"
I could feel the heat coming off her body. The sweater was thin enough that I could see the outline of her collarbone, the small silver chain she always wore, the way her breathing had gone shallow.
She was scared too. Just better at hiding it.
"I need a way into the morgue," I said quietly. "That's all."
"Bullshit."
She reached behind her back and pulled a gun.
It was a compact Glock, maybe a 43, and she put it under my jaw so fast I didn't have time to block. The muzzle was cold. Her hand was steady.
"One real answer," she said. "Or I put you down and sell the key to someone who'll actually talk."
I didn't move. My hands stayed at my sides. If I grabbed for the gun, she'd pull the trigger. If I stepped back, she'd follow. Ava didn't bluff.
"You won't shoot," I said.
"Try me."
"If you wanted me dead, you wouldn't have opened the door."
Her jaw tightened. The gun pressed a little harder into the soft spot under my chin.
"I died," I said.
Her eyes flickered.
"What?"
"In Prague. I died. And then I woke up three days earlier."
She didn't lower the gun. But I saw the calculation in her face. She was deciding whether I was insane or telling the truth, and which option was more dangerous.
"You're saying you time-looped."
"I'm saying I don't know what the fuck happened. But I've got a counter on my wrist that says I've got seven lives left, and every time I die it goes down by one."
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then she lowered the gun.
"Show me your wrist."
I rolled up my sleeve. The number was still there, faint and black like a tattoo that had half-faded. 07.
Ava looked at it. Then she looked at me.
"If you're lying—"
"I'm not."
"If you're lying," she continued, "I'll know. And I'll make sure you don't wake up next time."
"Noted."
She tucked the gun back into her waistband. Then she walked to the desk, pulled out a tablet, and started swiping through files.
"The morgue sublevel connects to the old transit tunnels," she said. "There's an access shaft near the east loading dock. It's not on any current map, but I've got a blueprint from 2012."
She turned the tablet around. I saw a network of corridors, service rooms, a freight elevator shaft.
"This room here." She tapped a spot on the screen. "That's where your key goes. It used to be a cold storage annex. If someone's using it now, it's not for bodies."
"How do I get in?"
"You don't. Not alone. The east dock is monitored. You'll need a diversion, or someone with city maintenance credentials."
"Can you get me credentials?"
"No. But I know someone who can."
She zoomed out on the map. A red pin appeared a few blocks north.
"Lea Santos," she said. "She runs a clinic near the docks. Freelance medic, used to work black ops. She's got access to the city health database. If anyone can print you a maintenance pass, it's her."
My stomach dropped.
Lea.
I hadn't seen Lea in over a year. Not since I'd left the team. Not since she'd told me that if I ever came back, she'd shoot me herself.
"You know her?" Ava asked.
I didn't answer.
Ava's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You do. And she hates you."
"It's complicated."
"It always is."
She handed me the tablet. The red pin blinked on the screen, steady and inevitable.
"You've got until morning," Ava said. "After that, someone's going to notice that key is missing. And when they do, they'll come looking."
"For me or for you?"
"Both."
I looked down at the map. Lea's clinic. The last place I wanted to go.
Ava stepped closer again. This time she didn't pull a gun. She just looked at me, her face unreadable.
"If you die again," she said quietly, "does the counter go down before or after you reset?"
"After."
"So you'd know."
"Yeah."
She nodded slowly. Then she reached out and touched the edge of my sleeve, right where the number was hidden underneath.
"Don't waste them," she said.
Her fingers were warm. I could feel the ghost of her touch even after she pulled her hand back.
"I'll try," I said.
She turned away, walked to the door, and opened it.
"Go," she said. "Before I change my mind about letting you leave."
I stepped past her into the hallway. The burnt key was still in my pocket. The tablet was in my hand. And Lea's clinic was blinking on the screen like a countdown I couldn't stop.
Ava closed the door behind me without another word.
I stood there for a moment, alone in the fluorescent hallway, looking down at the map.
The red pin didn't move.
It just waited.