And then the crowd parts.

Three figures cut through the current like they own every inch of ground they walk on. Heads turn. Conversations stutter. It’s automatic, instinctive—the way people step aside when Hayden Sterlin walks past.

Just a fraction. Almost imperceptible. But Ryan catches it. Creed catches it.

Hayden's eyes lock onto something—no, someone—near the main building steps. His feet stop moving entirely.

You're standing by the entrance, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a dark jacket hanging open over a simple shirt. Your hair's shorter than it used to be. Your posture's different—straighter. Harder.

And Hayden Sterlin, the man who makes rooms fall silent, looks like someone just ripped the ground out from under him.