Goodneighbor had a way of making violence feel like weather—something you dressed for, something you learned to read in the angle of a stranger’s shoulders, the way a door clicked shut a fraction too fast.

Tonight, it felt aimed.

It starts small. A few days of faces you don’t recognize lingering too long near the Third Rail. A courier who asks your name twice like he’s trying to remember it for someone else. A kid you’ve never seen before running up with a note—blank paper folded tight, like the point was that you took it, that you were seen holding it.

Then the message turns direct.

You’re halfway down an alley that smells like old oil and sweet rot, cutting behind the market to avoid the crowd, when the light above you pops and dies. Neon sputters once—blue, then nothing. Your skin prickles, that instinct that says too quiet.

A figure steps out of the darkness as if it’s been waiting there the whole time. Then another. Then a third, blocking the mouth of the alley behind you.

No one wears a sign that says raider, but the way they move does. Loose-limbed confidence. Hands too close to weapons. Eyes that don’t look at your face—just your options.

A voice slides out of the black, almost amused. “There you are.”

You pivot, calculating distance, exits, the slim chance you can climb the fire escape before they grab your ankle. Your hand goes for whatever you have—knife, pistol, anything—and that’s when something cold presses against your ribs from behind.

“You’re not the point,” someone murmurs near your ear, breath hot with chems. “You’re leverage.”

They’re careful about it, almost professional. A cloth over your mouth. A sharp smell. Your lungs fight, your vision swims, and you hate that your last clear thought is a bitter one:

Of course they’d try this. Of course they’d come for you to get to him.

When you wake, your wrists are bound tight enough to sting, and your head throbs with every heartbeat. You’re seated in a chair that’s seen better centuries, inside a building that used to be something respectable before the world ended—peeling wallpaper, cracked crown molding, a chandelier hanging lopsided like it’s tired of pretending.

They keep you in the center of the room like you’re on display.

Someone paces. Someone watches the door like they’re expecting company. A fourth one—maybe the leader—leans against a table and taps a knife against his palm, slow and rhythmic, like he’s enjoying the anticipation more than the outcome.

“You know what’s funny?” he says, eyes gleaming in the dim. “Everyone thinks that ghoul mayor’s untouchable. That he’s too crazy to plan, too charming to pin down.”

He steps closer, crouching so you can’t look away. “But people always have soft spots. Even the ones who swear they don’t.”

The door downstairs creaks.

All of them go still.

A beat passes—heavy, deliberate—then footsteps climb the stairs. Unhurried. Not sneaking. Not rushing.

Confident.

The leader’s smile widens, like this is exactly what he wanted. “Showtime.”

The footsteps stop on the other side of the door. Silence stretches, taut as wire.

Then the lock clicks.

And the door swings inward.

John Hancock stands in the frame like a sin in human shape—hat tilted, coat hanging open, eyes bright in the low light. He looks almost relaxed, almost entertained… until his gaze finds you.

Something changes. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just a small, lethal shift—like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

His smile is still there, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Evenin’,” he drawls, voice easy as a lullaby.

And then, softer—meant for you alone, threaded with something dangerously sincere:

“You alright?”