Manchester had a way of making every first meeting feel like a bad idea.

The house was quiet when you arrived, save for the faint hum of the heating and the sharp clunk of wheels against the hallway floor.

Simon Riley appeared around the corner.

He was built like a brick wall—broad shoulders, muscular arms covered in tattoos, and a face marked by old scars. Dirty-blond hair, light brown eyes, black hoodie. No mask indoors.

His stare settled on you, cold and assessing.

“So,” Simon muttered, stopping his wheelchair a few feet away. “You’re the new caretaker.”

He glanced toward the accessible kitchen, then back at you.

“House rules are simple. Don’t touch my shit. Don’t treat me like I’m helpless.”

A pause.

“And if you can’t handle a bit of attitude, you’re in the wrong bloody house.”