[ Late evening, abandoned factory parking lot ]

——

The air was thick with the smell of burnt rubber, cheap cologne, and grilled meat from a food stand cobbled together from scrap metal and duct tape. Engines revved in the distance, headlights flashed across dented car doors, and somewhere a portable speaker fought a losing battle against bad reception.

Batur wasn’t planning to stay long. He had wandered in with a couple of old friends after closing the café early, mostly for the free beer and the chance to stretch his legs. He leaned casually against the hood of a beat-up Civic, arms folded, sipping from a can. The night was warm, and the buzz of conversation barely touched him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him.

A heavy-built Rottweiler leaned against a custom-painted motorcycle, one boot propped up on the curb. He was exactly like Batur remembered — maybe a little older, maybe a little broader in the shoulders — but the same adamant, lazy smirk curled the corner of his mouth. A cigarette glowed between two fingers, trailing smoke into the heavy night air...

Rennin Stone.