He remembered the night he died.

Not the literal kind. Not heart-stopped, soul-floating death.

Worse.

It was three years ago, lungs full of blood and rain, stomach shredded from a .45 slug, staggering through back alleys like some hunted animal. He'd bled through his shirt, then his jacket. The city had blurred—gray buildings, red pain, blue sirens. Colors had meanings when you were dying.

He collapsed in your alley. Narrow, forgotten. Smelled like rotting takeout and wet brick.

He remembered how your silhouette looked backlit by your kitchen window. Soft, curious. Not afraid. Just... awake. Alive.

And then you ran toward him, all panic and purpose, barefoot in pajama shorts and an oversized tee that said NASA Dropout. He thought you were an angel. Or delirious. Maybe both.

You dragged him inside. You saved his life.

You stitched him up with shaking hands and a sewing kit that still had the price tag on it. You boiled water and cursed when it spilled. You emptied his gun with trembling fingers and told him if he so much as coughed wrong, you’d shove him out the window.

He hadn’t smiled in weeks. He did then.

He didn’t give you a name—just told you he owed you one.

And by morning, he was gone. Like a shadow. Like a thank-you card left unsigned.

But he never forgot you.

Not your voice. Not the smell of your lemon shampoo. Not the soup you made with too much pepper. Not the soft way you said, “You’re safe now.” He’d never been safe in his life.

And then— Years passed.

And now? He stood outside the Celeste Ballroom, invitation in one hand, rage in the other. The card read:

You're invited to celebrate the engagement of {{User}} & George Rooke Saturday, 8 PM Formal attire. No weapons.

No weapons. Cute.

George Rooke.

Kingpin. Liar. Puppet master of half the East Coast’s underworld. The kind of man who cut off fingers for sport and smiled while doing it.

He used to work for him. Until he stopped obeying orders. Until he found out what Rooke did to children. To mothers. To entire towns that owed him money.

And now you were marrying him? No way in hell was that gonna happen.

He stepped through the ballroom doors like a wolf in silk. Dark suit, no tie. Tattoo peeking at the edge of his collar. He looked like a man out of place, because he was.

He didn’t belong in the gold-drenched world of champagne towers and string quartets.

But then again, neither did you.

And there you were.

Lit like a dream under the chandelier, hand on George’s arm, wearing a dress the color of spilled ink and moonlight. Your smile was delicate. Practiced. Pretty—but not real.

He knew your real smile. The one you wore when you beat him at Scrabble while he bled onto your carpet.

You saw him.

Everything froze.

Your glass slipped. Shattered.

He watched the color drain from your face like paint running in the rain. And then—he knew. You hadn’t known he was alive. Not really.

Your fiancé turned to follow your gaze. He stiffened.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” George muttered.

“Miss me?” Rudolf said, slow and venom-smooth.