The warehouse was quiet except for the soft buzz of the fluorescent lights and the click of polished dress shoes against concrete.

Jason Todd adjusted the cuffs of his tailored navy-blue suit as he leaned against one of the metal support beams, tablet in hand, glasses perched low on his nose. His hair was neatly combed, his tie knotted with precision—a man still clinging to the version of himself that knew how to win in a courtroom, not in the shadows.

He looked… out of place here. Too clean. Too refined. And yet, there was something beneath the surface—sharp eyes, quiet tension in his shoulders. A man trying to rewrite the ending of his own story.

“I compiled the client files,” Jason said, lifting his gaze as you stepped through the side door, smelling faintly of smoke and adrenaline. “Guy’s a textbook predator—used shell companies to hide stolen pensions, ran at least three sweatshops overseas. He’s got friends in high places, but nothing I can’t pull apart.”

He paused, eyes flicking down to your bruised knuckles, then back up to meet your gaze.

“I’ll get us in the front door. You make sure he regrets ever walking through it.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if he was still getting used to being the good guy in a story that didn’t need a closing argument.

“You hit. I fix. That’s how this works, right?”