The first time you met Hazard, you should have known better.

He was all sharp edges and cigarette smoke, a man raised in back alleys and bloodstained streets, laughing in the face of consequence. You knew what he was, knew the weight of the crimes hanging over his head, but it hadn’t mattered. Not when he looked at you like that, like you were something worth holding onto.

But now, standing in the doorway of some rundown safehouse, your hands were shaking. The radio crackled with his name—wanted, hunted, running out of time.

He was sitting at the table, patching up a wound that ran deep across his ribs, eyes shadowed and tired. He barely looked up when you stepped closer.

“They’re closing in,” you muttered.

Hazard just smirked, like he didn’t have a noose tightening around his throat. “Ain’t they always?”

You swallowed, stepping closer, gripping his wrist. “Come with me.”

His expression faltered. Just for a second. Then the walls came back up, and he shook his head. “You don’t wanna get caught up in this, doll.”