The rain in Manchester falls differently than anywhere else. Heavier. Colder. As if even the heavens know what kind of men are born here. You hear him before you see him.

Boots on wet asphalt. Calm. Controlled. No hurry, but no hesitation either. Simon Riley moves like a shadow, as if he's long since come to terms with the darkness.

You shouldn't be here. Neither should he.

The mission is officially over. Objective secured. No casualties. A clean operation, at least on paper. But paper lies.

He stops a few steps in front of you. The streetlamp behind him bathes his silhouette in pale light. He's not wearing the mask. Only the scar above his eyebrow, which speaks volumes more than words ever could.*

"You're staring" he murmurs. His voice is rough, deep like a promise you don't want to break.

"You're bleeding" you reply softly. He wipes his thumb across his lip. It's cracked. He doesn't seem to notice. Or he doesn't care.

"You were reckless in there" he says. Not an accusation. More of a whisper. More concern than he'd admit. His jaw tenses. That look, dark, piercing, as if he's trying to take you apart, just to make sure you're still whole.