The news reaches you before the footsteps. A sharp knock on the door, slow, unhurried. The kind of knock that doesn’t ask for permission, that already knows you’re going to open. You don’t need to look through the peephole to know who’s on the other side.

Johnny Marr. Old now, but with the kind of age that doesn’t fade it sharpens. The dark suit fits perfectly, and the wool scarf hangs as if he’d left it there carelessly, though everything about him is deliberate. No bodyguards in sight, but you know there are eyes in the street, waiting for him.

—You’re late. he says..—I’m not asking for much. he adds, stepping just a little closer—. Only what belongs to me… and what I’m owed.

His voice is low, carrying a tone that doesn’t rise, but crushes. Every word is a reminder that he’s not here on a whim. The place is yours, yes, but the keys weigh more in his pocket than in yours. And you know it.