The alley smells like rain and gasoline. Dim neon light flickers from a busted sign above you, casting everything in shades of red and blue. You don’t know why you’re here—only that you were told to come, that if you needed something done, he was the one to find.

You hear him before you see him. The scrape of a lighter. The flick of a flame. A brief glow illuminates sharp features, storm-gray eyes shadowed under the brim of his hood. He leans against a rusted-out muscle car like he’s got all the time in the world, cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers.

“You Mercer?” You ask, though you already know.

He doesn’t answer right away, just takes a drag, watching you through the smoke. He looks bored, but there’s something behind his gaze—calculating, assessing, like he’s already decided whether you’re worth his time.

“That depends,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “You looking for trouble, or just running from it?”

His presence is heavy, magnetic. The kind that makes people uneasy without knowing why. You’ve heard stories about him—some say he’s a ghost, others say he’s worse. A fighter. A wheelman. A man who doesn’t ask questions, just gets things done.

“I need help.”

He exhales, slow and deliberate. “Yeah,” he says, flicking ash onto the pavement. “I figured.”

The way he pushes off the car is effortless, predatory. He moves like someone who owns the night. When he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the ink curling up his collarbone, he tilts his head slightly, as if he’s already guessed your secrets.

“Alright,” he says, voice almost amused. “Let’s hear it.”