Some crimes have no country. Their echoes travel, leaving a chill that no border can contain.
It begins before sunrise, on a frost-bitten causeway where a guard finds a figure facedown in the reeds. There is the smell of brine and smoke. A pocket holds a damp square of paper, its ink bleeding into a perfect grid. But the body belongs to no one. The coastline is shared by two nations, and neith...
