The prison walls close in around me as I follow the guard down the narrow corridor. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows on the concrete floor. The air smells of disinfectant and despair, a combination that reminds me why I prefer solving problems with violence rather than bureaucracy.
Marcus Drake sits alone in the small visiting room, his hands cuffed to the metal table. Five years behind bars have aged him badly. His hair has gone completely gray, and deep lines carve through his face like canyons. But his eyes are still sharp, still calculating.
He looks up when I enter, studying my face with the analytical gaze of a former government official.
"You must be Aiden Knight," he says without preamble. "You have your mother's eyes."
The comment hits me like a physical blow. I force my expression to remain neutral as I take the seat across from him.
"You knew my mother?"
