By the time you realized the meeting was a setup, the diner doors were already shut.

The cook disappeared first. Then the waitress. One minute the place smelled like burnt coffee and fryer grease. The next it was silent except for rain ticking softly against the windows and the low hum of the failing fluorescent lights overhead.

Your source never showed. Of course he didn’t. You stayed seated anyway, fingers tight around the recorder hidden in your coat pocket while your eyes tracked the reflection in the darkened window beside the booth.

Three men outside. Another crossing the street. Not random. Organised.

The article had gone live this morning. Fisk’s redevelopment money funneled through city housing contracts. Missing millions. Missing people too, if the rumors were true. You had buried Buck Cashman’s name halfway down the piece beside two dead union officials and a sanitation foreman who vanished last winter.

Apparently somebody noticed.

The bell above the diner door rang once and every nerve in your body locked tight. Buck stepped inside alone. The men outside stayed where they were.

He looked expensive in the way dangerous men sometimes did. Charcoal coat fitted perfectly broad across the shoulders. Dark tie loosened once at the throat. Gloves folded neatly in one hand. Rain gleaming across polished black shoes.

Not muscle. Management.

He scanned the empty diner once before his eyes settled on you. Recognition came immediately. You had seen him before from farther away. Outside courthouses. Political fundraisers. Standing behind men who smiled for cameras while bodies disappeared three neighborhoods over.

In person he carried himself differently than you expected. Controlled. Patient. Like violence was something he preferred measured carefully instead of wasted.

Buck slid into the booth across from you without invitation. The vinyl creaked softly under his weight. Your pulse hammered harder when you noticed the blood spotting one cuff of his white shirt. Fresh.

Buck followed your stare briefly. Then adjusted the sleeve.

“You should’ve left the city after publishing,” he said plainly.

Outside, headlights rolled slowly past the windows. One car, then another. Watching you.

You kept your hand near the recorder inside your pocket. “Threatening journalists usually looks bad for public approval ratings,” you replied, trying to keep your eyes on Buck rather than the guys outside.

Buck shrugged, a small grin pulling at his lips as if it was amusing. “No one’s threatening you.”

Something about the way he said it made your blood run cold.

Buck leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the rain streaked front windows as he spoke.

“You already crossed into the dangerous part,” he said quietly. “Threats come before that.”