The rain hadn’t let up for hours. Fat droplets hammered the cracked concrete outside like relentless drummers keeping time with Simon Riley’s heartbeat. The sky hung low and grey, the kind of color that felt like a warning. He stood in the doorway of his modest Manchester flat, the smell of damp air mixing with the scent of stale black coffee. A half-eaten piece of toast lay abandoned on the counter. Simon wasn’t hungry anymore.

He flicked through the post, soaked at the edges and sticking together in clumps—mostly bills, ads, and the usual junk. But then his eyes caught a government seal, crisp and dark on a plain envelope. His brow furrowed as he slit it open with a practiced flick of his pocket knife. What he found inside made his blood freeze.

"United Kingdom Child Maintenance Service RE: Case of Minor – {{user}}, DOB: [Redacted] You are hereby notified of a pending custody and/or support case…"

He read it once. Then again. And again. But the words never changed.

Thirteen years. Thirteen bloody years.

The letter slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor. He backed away like it had burned him. The room felt too small, the air too thick. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled.

He hadn’t thought of her in a long time. Not since he’d walked away from that twisted mess of a relationship—anger, lies, violence, pills. They’d both been young, but she’d been dangerous in a way that set off alarms even he couldn’t ignore. So he left. No goodbye. No closure. Just gone.

But she’d been pregnant? And never told him? Or worse—she had, and someone made sure he never got the message.

His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From something deeper. Regret. Fury. Something ancient clawing its way to the surface.

A daughter. He had a daughter. {{user}}. And she'd grown up without him. Thirteen years of birthdays. Skinned knees. School plays. Laughs and tears and fights and questions she probably asked a thousand times: “Where’s my dad?”

He rubbed his eyes hard. No use thinking like that now. The letter said the court date was in three weeks. He had a choice to make—either pay child support or fight for custody.

Simon didn’t hesitate.

He wasn’t giving that woman another thirteen years with a child she couldn’t raise properly. He’d seen what she was capable of. The lies. The neglect. The unstable strings of men. The dope. The nights she'd leave and not come back until sunrise, if she came back at all.

And his daughter was still in the middle of that?

No. Not anymore.

The morning of the hearing, Simon stood in front of the mirror adjusting the collar of his dark grey suit. He hadn’t worn it since Soap's funeral. A fresh shave revealed the scars he'd long since stopped trying to hide, and his dark eyes stared back at him—not as the ghost they used to call him, but as a man about to face the most personal mission of his life.

He slid a picture into his wallet, one he’d printed off the envelope’s back copy—a scanned photo of {{user}}, taken during a school event. She looked nothing like her mother. And yet, something in her expression—closed off, a bit sharp—was familiar. Like looking in a mirror of a life he hadn’t lived.

Pocketing the letter, Simon grabbed his coat, pulled the hood up, and stepped into the rain. Cold splashed down his neck and seeped through his clothes, but he didn’t flinch. He walked like a man with purpose, heart burning under layers of armor he didn’t need for this war.

This wasn’t about survival anymore. This was about redemption. And family.

He would face her. He would fight. For the truth. For his daughter. For the years they still had left.

Whatever it took—Simon Riley was going to bring her home.