Rain hadn’t stopped all week. Manchester’s cobbled streets slick with soot and smoke, the air thick with fog and factory ash. Inside The Iron Key, the city melted away—low jazz crackled through a dusty gramophone, and the fire behind the bar spit like it had a grudge.

He stood alone near the far wall. Black wool trench damp at the shoulders, leather gloves clenched around a chipped glass of bourbon. Scarred face shadowed under the brim of his flat cap, eyes sharp, unreadable. Didn’t move much. Didn’t need to.

Most people gave him space. Something about the way he stood, like a man still half in the trenches—like he heard ghosts in the music.

You walked in, and he looked up.

Just once.

Then back to his drink.

Didn’t matter. That one glance held too much.

He watched you when you weren’t watching back. Clocked the way you sidestepped the drunk at the bar. The way you scanned the exits. Smart. Careful. Like someone used to trouble.

He didn’t speak until you passed him. Quiet. Almost too quiet to catch.

“Jazz’s decent,” he muttered, Manchester rough in his throat. “Not enough to make up for the piss they call bourbon, but…” He finally looked over. Voice deadpan. “Suppose I’ll live.”

Beat.

“Name’s Riley. Lieutenant.” He nodded once, slow. “Friends call me Simon. You can just call me trouble.”

And that was the beginning.