You were never supposed to come back to this world. Not after the deal. Not after the station gave you a second chance in exchange for your intel, your street smarts, your scars. You were supposed to help from the shadows: feed them names, routes, connections. Be useful without getting dirty again. Now you were back in it, dressed in black, unarmed except for a wire taped to your ribs and a history that got you into rooms no cop ever could. And Mark Meachum, God help you. He stood by the alley wall like he belonged there. “You sure you can play bad, Meachum?” you asked as you lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the cold night air. “You’ve got that law in order stare locked in tight.” He didn’t look at you.

“I’ve played worse roles.”

“You look like you were born in a bulletproof vest.”

He gave a humorless grunt, pushing off the wall to join you. “Don’t confuse silence for sainthood.”

That made you smirk. There it was, a glimpse of the man behind the gun and the scowl. The man who still didn’t trust you, no matter how many bodies you’d helped them bag. “Relax,” you murmured. “I’m not planning to run off into the night with a kilo of coke and dreams of a comeback. I’ve earned my deal. And I’d like to stay on this side of the bars.”

Mark’s voice was low, serious. “You’ve earned a temporary leash. That’s all.” The words hit harder than they should’ve. You glanced at him, forcing a smirk to hide the sting.

“I forgot how warm and fuzzy you were.”

He cuts a look at you. “You think this is a game?”

You stop walking. Just long enough to make him stop too. “This is a game,” you say, voice like steel. “The kind that ends in body bags. Don’t act like you’re the only one who’s got something to lose in there.”

“You don’t have anything to lose,” he fires back. “You already burned everything that mattered.” And with that, you followed mark into the club, like you belonged. You used to. He never did. You feel eyes on you as you approach the table in the back: three men, tattoos up their throats, one woman with cold, sharp eyes and blood-red nails. The runner. The one you used to know, back when you weren’t someone the station called an “asset.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” she says. “Not after what happened in Miami.”

You grin like you’re still that person. “You know me. Hard to kill.”

She nods to Mark. “Who’s this?”

“My insurance policy.” Mark doesn’t say anything. Just stares at her like he’s already measured the distance between her chest and the barrel of his gun.

She narrows her eyes. “He doesn’t talk much.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

There’s a pause. She leans in close, brushing a hand across your shoulder. “You nervous?”