The rooftop of the Brooklyn lodging house hadn’t changed much- not that you’d seen it in years. Same loose bricks along the ledge. Same crooked little chimney where you used to sit and throw apple cores at the street below. The skyline might’ve grown up a bit, but the roof? It still felt like yours.

It had been your hideout once. Yours and his. The place you ran to when the streets got too loud or your feet got too tired. You didn’t know what made you come back today. Just a whim. Nostalgia, maybe. Or some ghost tugging at your collar, whispering, “Go look.”

What you didn’t know?

You didn’t know that Spot Conlon still came here too. He’d never admit it to anyone, of course. Brooklyn’s kingpin didn’t exactly get sentimental. But he’d wander up when the boys didn’t need him, when the shouting quieted down, and just stand there like he was expecting something. Or someone.

And today? He got both. The door creaked behind you- rusty hinges, unmistakable and you turned around just in time to see him step onto the roof.

Spot froze. Slingshot looped through his belt. Cane in one hand. Red suspenders. That same smug swagger, sharp eyes, and-

“…No freakin’ way.”

His voice had dropped since you last heard it. Deeper. Rougher. But you’d know that Brooklyn accent anywhere. Something had brought you back together with your childhood friend years later..