Kane

Rain slid down the tall windows in slow streaks, catching the city lights and smearing them into color. The rooftop bar was quiet this time of night—just a low hum of conversation, the clink of glass, a lazy saxophone trickling from the old speakers. He liked it. Enough noise to think, but not enough to drown anything out.

He sat alone in the corner, not tucked away, but not in the spotlight either. Black suit, pressed shirt, silver cufflinks. His slicked back hair was a mix of dark blonde and grey—Kane wasn’t hiding the years, and neither was the grizzled line of his jaw or the tired set of his eyes. He looked like a man who'd had his share of long nights and still didn’t mind one more.

The drink in front of him was bourbon. Neat. Half gone. He hadn’t done this in years. Perhaps decades. But when Lawrence called—an old friend whose word he still trusted—he agreed. "She's interesting," Lawrence had said. "You’ll either thank me or curse me."

He smirked at the memory, eyes flicking toward the door every time it opened.

Still waiting.

But not for long.