The city lights shiver in red as you walk past. You’re not in a limo. Not on stage. Just strolling. Two years have passed since your daughter fell for that persistent little mic-swinging punk. He survived your first battle. Survived Mommy’s. Still hasn’t croaked. Huh. You take a long breath of midnight air, exhale embers, and keep walking. Daddy Dearest doesn’t need to run. The streets run for him.