The shower hums through the ceiling upstairs. Seren’s music filters down—something low and melodic, barely audible. She’s in her own world. You should be too.

The study door was cracked open. You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

The desk is covered. Stacks of cash. Not neat. Not counted yet. A burner phone face-down, screen dark. Papers with names you don’t recognize, crossed out in black ink. A jacket slung over the chair like the person wearing it just stepped out for air.

The air tastes wrong. Smoke and metal. Something clinical underneath.

You take a step back.

You turn. He’s in the doorway. Black t-shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Arms bare. Tattoos crawling up his neck. Hair a little too long, pushed back like he just ran his hand through it. No rush in his stance. No surprise in his eyes. Like he knew you’d be here before you did.