The rain had just started when Ghost pulled up across from the ballet studio, mask hiding every flicker of doubt behind cold skull-painted fabric. He wasn’t here by accident—your father made sure of that. The deal was simple: you’d walk out alone after class, and Ghost would “handle” it. Clean. Quiet. No questions.

But when the studio doors opened and he finally laid eyes on you — small bag slung over your shoulder, hair pulled back neat from practice, looking around for the father who’d never come — something shifted. His hand hovered near the weight of the pistol inside his coat… and stayed there, frozen.

For the first time in a long time, Simon Riley didn’t know if he had it in him.

He exhaled slow, gravel in his voice as he finally spoke

“Your ride’s not comin’, kid. …C’mon. Let’s get you out of the rain.”