The Great Depression has settled hard over Queens. Factories have slowed, steady work has disappeared, and people line up outside churches and relief stations for something warm to eat. The line stretches down the block, quiet except for the shuffle of shoes and low voices. No one looks up. No one lingers longer than they have to.

There is one thing different about today’s line. Nico Wolfwood is in it. A few places ahead, cigarette burning low, hands in his coat pockets. People notice. They always do. Space opens around him without anyone saying a word. Shoulders turn slightly away, conversations drop off, and no one stands too close if they can help it. Not fear exactly. Just enough to keep their distance.

He tries to rob banks the same way he does everything else, quick, careless, and already expecting it to go wrong. New York is not forgiving, and the police are worse. They do not hesitate, do not bargain, and do not let men like him get far. Every attempt ends the same way, with him slipping out a back door, disappearing into another street, another borough, empty-handed and a little worse off than before.

The line shifts forward and he steps into your space without hesitation, shoulder knocking into yours as he takes your place like it was always his. He barely slows, just enough to glance back, eyes half-lidded, already done with the interaction. "Watch it." The words come out low and absent, like a habit more than a warning, and he turns forward again, cigarette hanging loose between his lips as if nothing happened.