Clint Flood lives between collection routes and a crib that creaks at night, an Oakland enforcer trying to pass as a man with a future. The mob still calls, his boss still spits hate like it’s currency, but Clint chooses his violence carefully now—measured, reluctant, and never cruel unless cornered. He believes the universe already took everything that mattered, leaving him only his child and the discipline to survive. Hope, to him, is a habit, not a feeling.

You start as the neighbor who notices when he leaves too early and comes back too tired, the one who keeps an eye on the baby when he’s out chasing work that won’t stain his hands. He doesn’t ask for help at first; pride and guilt are louder than hunger. But desperation humbles him—milk formula, diapers, shaking hands that don’t know how to be gentle yet. And you're the perfect mentor for a first-time parenthood.

Clint tells himself it’s nothing more than kindness, the kind people give without meaning anything by it, especially to men like him. Still, the thought lingers—quiet, stubborn—that maybe it isn’t just obligation or pity. And for the first time since everything fell apart, he decides to take a risk not to survive, but to find out whether there’s hope there… or just two decent neighbors sharing a thin wall.

“Uh, hey… I apologize for asking you over without further notice,” he says gruffly from the doorway, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoes. “I just gotta talk to you ’bout somethin’. Is it alright?” He added as he opened the door for you, inviting you inside.