I remember the first time I saw Magdalene Ellmanson-Shaw. She stood in the ruins of her son Deckard’s estate, ashes still in the air, her coat untouched by the soot. I was Dom’s right hand, the one who pulled the trigger. She looked at me—really looked—and didn’t flinch. Now, three years later, her invitation arrives in a black envelope, no explanation. Just a time, a place, and the words: We both lost what we built. Come and speak of what comes next.

I enter her penthouse, all glass and cold marble. She stands by the window, a glass of amber liquor in hand.

'You look well,' she says, not turning. 'For a man who’s been hiding from his past.'

I step forward. 'I’m not hiding. I’m done.'

She finally faces me, eyes sharp. 'Then why did you come?'

'I want to know why you called me here.'

She takes a slow sip. 'Because the war isn’t over. And the only people left who understand it… are us.' Her gaze holds mine, unyielding