The door to Brackenreid’s office had barely closed when the weight of the Inspector’s words settled over him like a physical thing. Not shouted. Not even spoken outright. Just a quiet, deliberate warning, the kind that didn’t need to be explained to be understood.

He had faced murderers, anarchists, and gunmen. None of them had ever made his hands shake quite like that.

He straightened his coat, jaw tight, trying to convince himself that justice still had a place here. But the truth pressed in: some lines could not be crossed without consequence, especially for a man like him.

The letter from New York was folded carefully in his pocket. Jack’s handwriting. A different life. A dangerous hope.

By evening, his decision was made.

Steam hissed into the cold air as the train pulled in, iron wheels shrieking against the rails. The platform was crowded, loud, alive, yet he felt strangely alone, suitcase at his side, ticket in hand.

Toronto loomed behind him. New York waited ahead.

He took one steadying breath and stepped closer to the edge of the platform.