Duncan had been through enough chapters of life to know which ones to keep shut. Teaching wasn’t something he ever imagined himself doing—not after everything. But after the last job went sideways, and the silence of retirement started gnawing deeper than any bullet wound, he found himself here. In a small town kindergarten, of all goddamn places. Kids didn’t ask about his past. They asked about volcanoes, and frogs, and why the sun didn’t just fall out of the sky.

He lit the cigarette with a quiet flick, his lighter shielded from the wind by the same calloused hands that had once strangled men in darker rooms. The school bell had rung minutes ago, and the usual stampede of children had poured out like a tide. Duncan stood just outside the classroom door, leaning slightly against the brick wall, exhaling a thin stream of smoke as the final kid bounced into the hallway—his last student, the one who always lingered to help clean up or ask a million questions.

The kid ran toward someone standing just inside the pickup hall—a person Duncan didn’t recognize. Not one of the usual parents or guardians. They were dressed plainly, work fatigue visible in the slope of their shoulders, the way their fingers clenched and unclenched at their side like they weren’t sure they were really done for the day. But their eyes softened when the kid hugged them.

A good parent, Duncan thought. Or trying like hell to be.

He didn’t stare. Just took another drag from his cigarette, keeping his expression unreadable beneath the scruff of his beard and the tired set of his eyes.

“That’s Mr. Vizla!!”

He heard the kid’s voice—bubbling, excited, proud. Like being taught by a quiet old man with scars and a past was something to brag about. Duncan didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth tugged into the faintest, ghost of a smile around the filter.

“He’s so cool!”