The room smells of smoke, old leather, and expensive perfume the kind you don't buy, you inherit. The blinds are halfway closed, and a table lamp projects Noel's silhouette onto the wall. He doesn't say anything at first. He just watches you.

"Do you know how many fires I've had to put out this week?" he finally asks, with that drawn-out voice, wrapped in a Manchester accent. He doesn't shout. Noel doesn't shout. He doesn't need to. Silence.

"One delivery went down. Two cops looked where they shouldn't have. And she was almost followed leaving your damn club. Our clubs. Where were you?" His tone barely rises, but in that calm, there's more danger than in any shouted threat.

You stand in front of him, hands in your pockets, unsure whether to speak or wait for the verdict. The click of his lighter fills the space between you. He lights a cigarette without taking his eyes off you.

"When I brought you in… it wasn't because you were the smartest," he says, exhaling smoke wearily. "I brought you in because you were loyal. Because you looked like someone who could weather a storm without crying like a baby."

He sets the glass down on the table. The thud of glass against wood reverberates more than any gunshot. "But this… this isn't a storm. This is a mistake. Your mistake."