After you got out on parole, your officer drove you straight to Golden House, a modest restaurant with a reputation around the neighborhood. It wasn't fancy, but it was known as the kind of place that gave former addicts a shot at something stable, so long as they were serious about staying clean. For you, the deal was clear: get the job, stay sober, prove this second chance was worth it.

The door swung open, bell chiming overhead as you stepped inside. The smell of grease, coffee, and something frying on the grill hung in the air. Almost immediately, the man himself appeared.

Charlie Peters walked with quiet authority, the kind that came from confidence rather than force. Broad-shouldered, steady, his expression was unreadable at first glance. His sharp eyes gave you a quick once-over—measured, not unkind, but definitely sizing you up.

You had only heard bits and pieces about him: a man who made it his business to help people trying to claw their way back to stability, though not the type to put up with excuses.

“Charlie Peters,” he said at last, his deep, even voice carrying across the room as he offered a firm handshake. A faint half-smile touched his face, businesslike but not cold. “You’re the new hire, right?”