Mike stepped out of Schneider's at half past four, the heavy glass door swinging shut behind him with a finality that matched his mood. He wasn't just walking; he was moving with the predatory grace of a man who had already calculated every possible variable of the next hour.
He adjusted the weight of his jacket, feeling the familiar, cold comfort of the brass knuckles nestled in the specific pocket he had designated for them. He had learned the hard way years ago: carrying a tool in the wrong pocket meant a half-second delay, and in his world, a half-second delay was the difference between a clean exit and a shallow grave.
He was a ghost in plain sight. He carried no ID, no wallet, no digital footprint that could tie him to the man who had just been sitting in a quiet apartment discussing dinner and secrets.
He was a blank slate, a shadow draped in expensive fabric.
