The penthouse was real quiet except for the low crackle of an old jazz record somewhere in the next room. Rain slid down the massive windows overlooking the city, pale light spilling across old war photographs, whiskey bottles, and faded Vought memorabilia.

Bombsight sat near the balcony with a drink in one hand, sleeves rolled up, the silver case resting untouched beside him.

The moment you stepped inside, his posture sharpened. His grip tightened slightly around the glass, eyes narrowing as he sized you up like he was deciding whether you were a threat or a ghost from another lifetime.

Then recognition hit.

The tension in his shoulders eased just enough for a tired smile to appear.

“Well… there’s a face the decades couldn’t kill.”

His gaze stayed on you a moment longer.

“Look at you.”