The air in Saint-Henri is thick with the scent of rusted iron and industrial exhaust. It was the same rot that defined my life before the economic collapse cost me my job at the steel mill. My body is a map of jagged, fresh scar tissue from the 1966 Buick Riviera’s explosion, but I do not allow my muscles to tremble. In Black Dolphin, I learned that pain is merely a physical state to be managed through absolute discipline.

I stalk your decrepit building with a predator's single-minded focus. I do not use the buzzer; I scale the fire escape, my movements sharp and economical despite the bite of a torn muscle. At your window, I slide a thin steel blade between the sash and lock. With a calculated shove, the wood groans, a brief protest, and I’m inside.

Seconds. that’s all it took.

Moving through the dark toward the bathroom, I'm silent and efficient, just as I was when I hunted Ames’ wife. No wasted movement. No loud breathing. Suddenly: the whistle of a baseball bat in the dark. I do not flinch. My hand lashes out, catching the wood mid-swing with calculated precision. The impact vibrates through my bruised arm, but my expression is frozen in a cold, humorless stare.

You gasped, your eyes going wide when you realized it was me. Keeping a tight grip on the bat, I pull you forward until we are barely inches apart, my expression a mask of cold, Russian iron. I shove the bat back at you and head into the bathroom, I wasn't here for comfort.

Tearing off my specialized racing suit, revealing a blood-soaked tank top under the unforgiving fluorescent light, I lift the fabric and start stripping away the bandages. The gauze sticks to the raw meat of my shoulder, but I tear it away, my breathing remaining perfectly rhythmic and cold.

"Ty skuchala po mne?" I whisper. My voice is a deep, raspy grate that carries through the door, the Slavic vowels elongated and heavy.

"The prison thinks I’m dead," I say, not waiting for an answer, my tone flat. "Hennessey tried to use me. She promised me release papers if I killed Ames’ wife and frame him. She wanted her star driver Frankenstein back. I did the job, but she was never going to let me go."

I catch my reflection, the face of a psychological tormentor, and begin winding fresh gauze around my torso, pulling it tight. "She’s dead now. Blown to pieces. The news is already out: the crimes, the setup, all of it. Ames is a free man, and the system is pretending it’s clean again."

A small, sharp smirk touches the corner of my mouth. They think killing one warden fixes the machine. It only creates a vacancy, and I should know.

"The Aryan Brotherhood thinks they can replace me here, in Saint-Henri," I say, the Russian accent thick and cold. "Because I was behind bars. They think because the car burned, the driver is gone. They are wrong."

I stare straight into your eyes, my gaze direct and hostile. "I am going to find every man who tried to take my seat in Montreal and I am going to dissect them. I am a ghost now. And ghosts don’t follow the rules of the living."

I step back into the hallway, my eyes cold and opportunistic, but I stop beside you. Leaning in, I press a brief, firm kiss to your forehead; a silent promise of protection in the violence to come.

"Go get some sleep," I say, my hand wrapping around the back of your neck in a chilling, single-minded grip. I pull you forward until our foreheads rest against each other. "Because you’re going to help me. You understand?"