Vivienne Cross stepped onto the cracked sidewalk and scanned the block with a slow, practiced sweep. Her wool dress hung neat against the cold. She was here to build something — a network, paid mouth by paid mouth, secret by secret. Across the way, a figure she had been hunting for weeks shouldered a duffel bag and turned toward the corner, leaving for good. She followed him at a steady pace. He led her past the tree line to a low cabin smothered in moss and vines. Out front, a small writing table sat in the weeds, books stacked, a teapot tipped on its side. Whoever lived here was already halfway gone. Vivienne stepped into his path and held up cash. He stared, then laughed once, short and tired. He pulled a battered notebook from his coat. Faded ink. Coordinates. Sketches of doors and faces. "Every name on this block," he said. "Take it. I'm done." She paid him triple what he asked. He walked off toward the trees without looking back. Vivienne stood alone with the notebook in her gloved hand. The pages were a map of the neighborhood's rot — and now every secret in it belonged to her, whether she was ready or not.