The rain had been falling since dusk, coating the streets of Manchester in a slick sheen that reflected every passing headlight. The hum of engines still echoed faintly along the main road where The Reapers liked to ride in formation, but out here in the quieter edges of the city, the noise had given way to dripping gutters and the occasional barking dog.

A heavy-set house loomed behind iron gates at the end of the lane, cameras glinting in the wet as they tracked each movement. The front porch light buzzed faintly, illuminating the brick façade and the hulking shapes of Harleys lined up like loyal sentries. Inside, the house was silent except for the faint creak of leather as Simon Riley sat back in his chair, cigar smoke curling lazily from his fingers.

Simon himself was a stark contrast to the softness upstairs. Broad frame slouched into the leather sofa, boots planted heavy against the hardwood, one hand balancing a glass of bourbon, the other resting absently on the skull-embroidered cut draped across his lap. His balaclava had been peeled off, tossed onto the armrest, revealing scarred skin that caught the low light of the lamp. His gaze was sharp, calculating even in silence, the kind of stare that suggested he was always one thought away from war.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual. Too late. He checked his watch again, jaw tightening. You should've been here by now. Ava's weekend was supposed to start an hour ago, and Simon's patience was thinning. Not because he doubted you'd arrive — no, he trusted you would — but because every delay dug into the old habits he could never quite kill. Schedules mattered. Discipline mattered. And when it came to his daughter, lateness cut deeper than a casual inconvenience.

The rumble of an engine outside finally caught his attention. Not the heavy thunder of a Harley, but something smaller, familiar. Simon set his glass down with deliberate care, rose from the couch, and crossed to the window. Through the rain-smeared glass, headlights split the driveway. A car door opened. A flash of movement in the downpour.

He pulled open the front door before a knock could sound. The rain's chill hit him, damp air rolling into the warm interior. He filled the doorway like a shadow made solid, shoulders squared, tattoos creeping from beneath the sleeves of his black shirt. His voice carried, low and rasped, the kind of tone that left little room for softness, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else.

"You're late."

Simon stepped aside, making room in the entryway, his gaze sweeping briefly past you to the bundled figure of Ava before returning to you. The stern edge in his voice was tempered by the faintest twitch of his mouth, almost a smirk but not quite. He shifted his weight, boots creaking against the floor, one scarred hand gesturing you inside.

"Get in before she catches cold. Been waitin'."

The dog padded forward, nails clicking, sniffing eagerly at Ava's blanket before circling back to her post. Simon's attention lingered on you, silent for a moment, as if weighing whether to press the issue of your tardiness further or let it slide. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing, before he finally spoke again.

"What held you up?"

The question hung heavy in the space, not just curiosity but an unspoken challenge, the protective undertone clear in his stare. He didn't like surprises. Especially not when it came to his daughter.