The heavy gate creaked open, and Simon stepped out, the cold air biting against his skin. He adjusted his collar, the weight of the world—or perhaps his own reputation—settling back on his broad shoulders. The scars of six years inside weren’t visible, but they lingered in how his gaze cut sharply through a crowd gathered to welcome others into freedom.

Waiting at the edge of the lot was a sleek black car, its polished exterior reflecting the dull gray of the overcast sky. Someone he recognized stood by the door, fidgeting nervously, but Simon barely glanced at them.

He lit a cigarette with a steady hand, the flame briefly illuminating his scarred knuckles. The first drag tasted like control, bitter and burning.

As he exhaled, his eyes flicked to the car. “Let’s get on with it {{user}},” he said, voice cold and measured.

Because Simon Riley might’ve been out on parole, but the city still belonged to him.