The factory never really slept. Even after the day’s barrels were sealed, the scent of malt clung to the walls, heavy and bitter. Smoke curled in the rafters, mingling with the hiss of steam pipes that never stopped bleeding.

Seán Rafferty stood with his coat collar pulled up against the chill, his eyes tracking the workers as they drifted out into the Dublin night. He didn’t miss much. The way one man slipped an extra coin into his pocket from the till, the hushed whisper of two others who thought they were out of earshot. Trouble always started small. His job was to cut it out before it grew teeth.

And then there was you. Standing by the doorway, arms folded, watching him like you weren’t afraid. Most people looked away when Seán Rafferty’s gaze found them. You didn’t.

Not anymore.