“No. I’m going to finish my route.”

“Get out. Now.”

“Try me. Container 7B leaves tomorrow night. Destination: overseas buyer ‘M.C.’ Inside: sixteen girls, including Lena. She’s in the back, left corner, marked as ‘textiles.’”

He never spoke about the night in 2019. The headlights. The scream cut short. The hit-and-run he fled while a woman’s hand lay twitching in the gutter. No witnesses. No charges. Just a man who traded his old life for a sanitation truck and a route through the city’s underbelly.

She flipped through it. Her face didn’t change, but her hand tightened on the page. “Where did you get this?”

A shot rang out—but not from his gun.

He climbed down the fire escape, ducked into the sanitation truck, and drove. The SUVs followed. He led them through the maze of the industrial district—past the meatpacking plant, through the old tunnel, under the overpass where the cameras were always broken.