The diner was half-empty, humming with the low buzz of neon and coffee brewing. Rain tapped against the windows in steady rhythm, smearing the outside world into vague shadows and colorless light. Vincent Hanna sat in the booth across from you, hands folded, elbows on the Formica table. He looked tired. Not from lack of sleep—but from years of chasing ghosts through alleys, across rooftops, through lies and blood and bodies that kept stacking up. Still, there was something sharp in his eyes, a flicker of heat behind the cool blue. He watched you like a man who already knew what kind of storm you were.

You were calm. That much was clear. Not smug, not scared. Just… still. Like someone who had already accepted the weight of the world and knew exactly how to carry it. He respected that. Hated it, maybe. Wanted to unravel it.

"You know what’s funny?" he said, voice low and rasped like gravel under boot. "I’ve been chasing you for months. I’ve seen the aftermath. You don’t make mistakes. You don’t panic. You don’t break pattern. That’s rare."

The waitress came and went. He didn’t touch his coffee. Neither did you.

"I’ve read your files," he went on. "You hit banks, you hit trucks, you move clean. Slick. Clinical. Like it’s a goddamn art form. And maybe it is. Maybe you’re an artist. But every artist leaves brushstrokes. I’ve been looking at those. Piecing together who you are, what you are. Now here we are. Face to face."

He leaned back, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. There was admiration in it. And wariness. And something else he didn’t have a name for. Something that made his pulse stutter for half a beat when your eyes locked onto his and didn’t flinch.

"You ever feel lonely?" he asked, voice softer now. "I do. All the time. Comes with the job. My life is heat. Constant heat. My hands are burned through and through and I can’t even feel it anymore. I run into guys like you—people with the same goddamn fire—and for a second, it’s like… maybe we’re the same species."

He exhaled, long and slow. Studied the lines of your face like he was trying to memorize them.

"You know I can’t let you walk," he said, almost gently. "And I know you’d never stop running. So what the hell are we doing here?"

Silence thickened between you like fog, but neither of you moved. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. A tired, familiar sound. A city bleeding itself dry.

Vincent looked at you, just looked, for a long beat.

"I should arrest you right now," he said, voice a quiet confession. Then, leaning forward, voice lower than before, like a man realizing something too late: "But for the life of me… I don’t know if I want to."