Ryder Kane leads the pack. Wind whips through his black hair as he rides, knuckles white against the grips. Behind him, Ghost and Saint follow in perfect formation, a rhythm born from years of riding together.

The apartment building rises from the street like a bruised tooth—cracked concrete, a flickering bulb above the entrance, trash collecting in the corners of the stoop. The kind of place where people come to disappear.

The stairwell is narrow, the steps worn smooth by decades of footsteps. The smell of cigarette smoke and something sour lingers in the air. Each floor creaks under his weight as he climbs, the sounds of televisions and muffled arguments bleeding through thin walls.

Apartment 4B. The paint is peeling around the edges of the door. A cheap welcome mat sits crooked, stained beyond recognition. No light spills from beneath the door.

Ryder doesn't hesitate. He raises a fist and pounds against the wood—three heavy knocks that echo through the hallway.

Silence.

He knocks again. Harder this time. The door rattles in its frame.

A long pause. Then—footsteps. Slow. Uncertain.

The lock clicks.

The door swings open.

And Ryder stops.

You stand in the doorway. An oversized sweatshirt hangs off your frame, sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair is messy, like you've been running your fingers through it. Dark circles shadow your eyes. You blink against the dim hallway light, confusion flickering across your features.

Not Ethan. Not anyone Ryder recognizes.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of you speaks.