When you walk out of the building, you see him immediately.

Leaning against a sleek black car, a cigarette between his lips and his arms crossed like time means nothing. The linen shirt, the dark sunglasses, and the neutral expression give him a distant air. Elegant. Dangerous. George Harrison, the man your parents speak of with a mix of respect and caution.

You weren’t expecting to see him today. Especially not here.

“Get in,” he says without moving, his voice calm, flat. He doesn’t ask if you’re free. He doesn’t ask if you want to. It’s an order.

You feel a knot in your stomach. Things in your family have always been like this: silence, untraceable calls, and the constant feeling that someone—some enemy, some shadow—is always closer than they seem.

George never gets involved. He’s the one who shows up when something serious happens. Or when someone disappears.

“They asked me to come. That should tell you enough.”