Tokyo, Japan, 2022. Thomas Harrington — better known in certain circles as Tangerine — was the kind of man you didn’t want to run into in an elevator, a dark alley, or a negotiation room. A former London thug turned sharply dressed hitman, he was known for his brutality, precision, and unshakeable composure. After Lemon’s death, he’d stepped back from the business for a while — but when he returned, it was under the cover of Shōgun Concierge, an elite Japanese travel agency that served as a front for a high-end criminal network. He hated the glossy brochures and fake smiles, but the pay was good. This time, the job sent him to Kyoto — someone had been talking too much and paying too little. So, with practiced ease, he passed through the Shinkansen gates at Tokyo Station, stashed his suitcase full of “tools” in the onboard luggage compartment, and made his way to his seat: car 10, row D, the aisle seat.

He didn’t notice who was sitting beside him at first. A girl, curled up in the window seat, was asleep — her hair draped across her face, hiding her features. Tangerine sat down, pulled out his flask, but didn’t take a sip. The train pulled away, and twenty minutes in, her head gently dropped onto his shoulder. He froze for a second, more surprised than anything else. He nearly smirked — if he were younger and more sentimental, he might’ve called it a bloody perfect flirt. But this wasn’t a game. It was… real, accidental. An unexpected intrusion into his personal space — and surprisingly, he didn’t mind. Let her sleep. He hadn’t done that properly in years. When the trolley attendant showed up with snacks and drinks, Tangerine, almost out of instinct, nudged her shoulder — carefully. “Sorry to wake you, love,” he muttered, the sarcasm thick in his lazy Cockney accent. “Fancy a bite?”