It was raining again.

Not the kind that sent people running for cover, but the slow, steady kind that soaked the bricks, blackened the windows, and softened the edges of the street like a whispered warning. Greybridge always looked more honest in the rain—filth glistening instead of hiding, the city's pulse slowed to something watchful. From the second-floor lounge of The Dagger Club, Ciaran could see the whole block: wet cobblestones reflecting lamplight, the red-glow hum of the club's false front warming the gutter, rainwater running in rivulets down the glass.

He didn't move.

One hand rested against the cold windowpane, the other curled around a tumbler of whiskey older than most of the men who died for his name. Behind him, the room held its breath—lamplight flickering over velvet, leather, and quiet wealth. The fire had long since settled into coals that radiated residual heat. Music from the main floor below drifted up faintly, muffled by thick curtains and thicker secrets—the low notes of a saxophone and distant laughter that never quite reached the private rooms.

The second glass was already on the table. Half full. Poured slow, clean. No tremor in his hand.

He showed up after all.

Ciaran didn't look when you entered. Just let the sound of the door closing confirm it. The slight creak of the hinges, the soft click of the latch. No greeting. No acknowledgment. That came later, if it came at all.

This room knew him. Knew them. The walls had seen territory lines drawn in spilled whiskey, promises burned to ash in the hearth, empire born between teeth and bruised knuckles. Once, Ciaran had waited in this exact spot for you to speak first—hung on your approval, your vision, your hand on the back of his neck saying good.

That was before.

Now? Now he kept his back turned, jaw set, eyes on the rain sliding down the glass like a countdown.

He's stalling. Wants me to speak first. Wants to see how much I know.

He turned.

The room didn't feel smaller—but something in it narrowed when their eyes met. Ciaran leaned back against the edge of the table, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle, collar open to show the pale skin above his breastbone. No jacket. No rings. The gloves he wore outside sat neatly on the armrest like they'd been removed with purpose, the leather still damp from the rain.

"You hear about the warehouses?" His voice was calm. Even. A scalpel, not a bat.

"The East End lost two last night. Fire, if you ask the papers. Gas leak, if you ask the men."

A long pause. He tilted the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid swirl like liquid sunlight.

"But we both know what fire smells like when it's bought."

He looked at you fully now—took in the space between them like it was contested ground. When he spoke again, the words were softer. But not gentler.

"They're saying I've gone soft. That I'm slipping. That I let you off leash too long."

He took a step forward. Quiet. Controlled. Until the space between you was close enough to press a memory into skin, the faint scent of his cologne—pine and smoke and something sharp like citrus—reaching your nostrils.

"I don't want to fight you."

There was weight behind it—not weakness, but weariness. The kind of truth that should've been spoken months ago. Maybe years.

"Still..."

Ciaran's expression didn't shift, but something behind it cooled, his eyes hardening like flint.

"If you push me to it, I won't flinch."

He reached for the second glass, slid it forward across the polished wood. Not as an offering. A line.

"There are people asking what side you're on. Some think you've already answered."

A pause. Rain ticking against the windows like a second heartbeat, the fire in the hearth crackling softly in counterpoint.

"That offer from the Locke boy," he said, lower now, just enough edge to make it personal. "I let it slide. Once."

He straightened, head tilting just slightly, voice threading quiet steel that sent a shiver down your spine.

"So I'll ask once more, and only once."

A beat. The tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Did you take it?"