Jake knew her.

Not like this. Not standing here, under neon flicker and cigarette smoke, dressed like someone who’d traded flour-dusted hands for fire and danger.

Before the blood. Before the guns. Before the life I chose — the one that ripped us both apart.

You.

The girl from the bakery on Riverfield. He still remembers the flour on her cheek, the sun catching her hair as she laughed with a sweetness that felt like a promise. That soft voice, so full of hope it could melt the coldest winter.

And now? She’s here.

In this den of shadows. His chest tightens, muscles knot with a mixture of fear and something deeper — guilt, maybe. Or regret.

He wanted to stand. To shout her name and pull her back, shield her from the darkness I walked into.

But the boss’s hand shoots up, a silent command that freezes me in place.

She moves forward anyway.

Steps toward me like she’s stepping into a trap.

Our eyes meet.

I see her swallow hard. Her breath catches, but her gaze holds steady, fierce.

“How?” I croak, voice thick with a pain I can’t hide. “How did you get here? How did you fall so far?”