Y/n pressed her back against the warm brick of the chimney, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her stomach growled, a hollow reminder that breakfast had been a stolen orange and half a stale roll.

Through a crack in the roof's edge, she watched the street below. A man in a faded linen suit was arguing with a dockworker over a crate of smuggled rum. Two kids kicked a deflated football between parked cars. And there—leaning against a battered pickup truck, checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes—was Victor Sullivan.

He looked exactly like the photos she'd scraped together from old newspaper clippings and whispered barroom talk. Silver hair, a smirk that didn't reach his eyes, and the kind of tan that came from decades of chasing trouble across three continents.

She watched Victor clap Nate on the shoulder, all charm and practiced warmth. A liar's smile. A wolf in a linen suit.

The sun beat down harder. Her canteen was empty. Her last few dollars were crumpled in her pocket, barely enough for a bus ticket out of the city.

She had one chance. One shot to make herself useful before Victor talked Nate into a grave.

Y/n took a breath, stood up, and started climbing down the fire escape.