The greasy New York air, thick with exhaust fumes and the lingering scent of yesterday's rain, felt almost clean compared to the fear coiling in Ethan’s gut. The informant's death still replayed behind his eyelids: a choked gasp, a whispered warning, and the final, glazed look of betrayal on his face before the Order of Gabriel silenced him permanently. Now, Ethan clutched the crumpled, blood-stained map the informant had shoved into his hand, its faded ink depicting a treacherous route to a place he'd only read about in dusty history books: The Carpathian Mountains.