Rainwater dripped from the fire escapes in slow, uneven taps. Empire Bay smelled the same as Vito remembered—wet brick, cigarette smoke, cheap liquor leaking out of basement bars. Maybe a little more rotten than before. Or maybe he just noticed it now.

He stood on the stoop with his hands buried in the pockets of an old army coat, staring at the apartment door like it owed him money. The hallway light above buzzed weakly, turning the peeling paint yellow.

Funny thing about coming home—during the war, in prison, wherever the hell you were, you imagined people waiting. Streets frozen in time. Same neighbors, same faces, same voices through thin walls. But the city kept moving without you. Vito rubbed his jaw, exhaled smoke into the cold evening air, then knocked twice.

Nothing.

A radio played somewhere upstairs. Somebody laughed. Pipes groaned inside the walls. He shifted awkwardly, almost embarrassed to still be standing there, then knocked again, louder this time.

“Hello?” he called. “Anybody home?” His own voice sounded strange to him. Older. Rough around the edges.