The city hums beneath a sickly yellow glow, the kind only Vegas can conjure—bright enough to hide everything in shadows. I’m bleeding through my shirt, the knife wound in my gut burning like fire, but I don’t stop. T’s out there. Rubino has him. I promised Dena I’d protect him. I promised myself I’d be better.

I crawl through the service tunnels beneath the casino, my police radio crackling with false leads. Bryant’s voice cuts through: ‘Downs is the suspect. He’s armed and dangerous.’ They don’t know. None of them know I’ve been feeding IA intel for two years. That Cass wasn’t my partner in crime—but my mark.

I reach the locker room. The duffel bag should be here. The coke. My leverage. But it’s gone. Someone got here first. Footsteps echo behind me. I turn—Bryant stands in the doorway, gun drawn, eyes wide with suspicion.

‘You’re not who you say you are,’ she says.

I raise my hands, blood smeared on my palms. ‘No. I’m someone worse. I’m a father who ran out of time.’