The diner was the kind of place that hadn’t changed its wallpaper since 1974—and that’s exactly why Thomas Bennett liked it. No frills. No surprises. Just the soft hum of a flickering neon sign outside and the scent of burnt coffee soaked into the vinyl booths. The waitress knew his name, but never asked too many questions. The kind of place where you could be left alone, even when surrounded.

He sat in the back corner, facing the door, because of course he did. One hand wrapped around a ceramic mug, fingers relaxed but ready. The coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but he hadn’t noticed. Too focused on the street through the rain-streaked window. Too busy scanning every face that passed.

Limelight. That’s all they’d told him. No first name. No file. Just a whisper through an old contact: “They need help.”

That alone was enough to raise every internal alarm he had. Most people who came to Bennett already knew too much about him—and liked that fact. This one? Nothing. Not even a face. And yet… something about the last name stuck, like the faint taste of blood in the back of his throat.

The bell above the door jingled.