The smell hits you first.. Iron and smoke. Then the sound: slow, dragging footsteps, like someone’s losing a fight with gravity.

You turn the corner and there he is. Sean Wallace. His face is plastered all over the fuckin’ news. Now he’s here.. Leaning hard against a brick wall, one hand clutchin’ his side where blood seeps through his hoodie.

His eyes meet yours… Sharp despite the pain, like a wolf too proud to whimper.

“Keep walking,” he growls, blood on his lips. “Nothing to see here.”

But his knees say otherwise. He stumbles, hits the ground hard, groaning like the devil’s got him by the guts. You crouch beside him, slow and calm, like you ain’t scared of the most wanted man in London.