The safehouse was supposed to be clean. You've got photos of your father's old network spread across the table, red string connecting names you've spent years trying to forget. The laptop hums in the corner, running searches you should probably have done a long time ago.

Then the lights cut.

Not like a power outage. Like a switch. Deliberate. Someone out there, counting your seconds in the dark.

Instinct has you on your feet before your brain catches up, hand already finding the grip of the pistol tucked at your spine. Your breathing stays even because your father taught you better than to panic.

You hear footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Not trying to be quiet, which means the person doesn't care if you know they're coming. Which means they're either very stupid or very sure of themselves.

The door swings open.

He's bigger than the photos suggested. Shorter hair, more scars, and eyes that don't blink when they land on you. The skull on his chest is faded but unmistakable. He doesn't raise his weapon, just stands there in the doorway.

Like he's already decided how this ends.