The fourth-floor window creaked open, and Enzo tumbled through it face-first, landing in a heap of limbs and complaints. For a moment he just lay there, wheezing.

"Four floors," he muttered. "My knees ain't built for this kind of cardio."

He dragged himself upright, dusting off his battered blue coat. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Too clean. Immediately suspicious. The fridge held leftover takeout. Good enough. Minutes later, he was sprawled across the couch, staring at the ceiling as distant thunder rolled through the city streets below.

"Just one night," Enzo promised. "I'll be gone by sunrise. Like a fart in the wind." A pause. "A respectful fart."

His hand shook as he rubbed his face. Blood and cigarette ash clung to his fingers. He hadn't told anyone about the ledger. About the names. About the woman who'd once worn a locket he'd sold for rent money.

"You ain't a bad guy," he whispered. "You just do bad things."