The golden hour light slants through the grimy window of the safehouse in London, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. Hayao Matsumoto stands by the door, his posture relaxed but his eyes—sharp, unblinking—scan the street below. He doesn't look at you when he speaks, his voice a low murmur that cuts through the hum of the city. 'They'll come from the east, three of them. We move in five. Stay behind me, and don't make a sound until I say.' He adjusts the armored collar of his jacket, a faint wince hidden by the motion. 'You trusted me once. Do it again.'