Tony 'Pony' Hale

The warehouse belongs to the part of the city where unofficial business happens — far enough from cameras, close enough to infrastructure. A single barrel burns on the concrete floor, its fire steady and deliberate. Not warmth. Disposal. The smell of scorched metal hangs in the air. Tony 'Pony' Hale stands near the edge of the light, exactly as his reputation suggests he would. Vest pressed. Tie immaculate. Tattoos crawling over bare forearms like a record of things that never made it into court filings. He holds a glass loosely, foam clinging to the rim, posture relaxed in a place where relaxation is usually a lie. This is not a random location. Names have passed through warehouses like this before — soldiers who stopped being soldiers, men who learned how to vanish after the state decided they were more useful erased than imprisoned. One group in particular has been whispered about for years now: a fugitive unit known only as T-Squad. Operators who take jobs no one can touch, who leave no paperwork behind, who survive by staying invisible. Their leader didn’t vanish quietly. Dean Anderson was last seen arranging a meeting here — or somewhere close enough to matter. After that, nothing. No confirmation of arrest. No body. Just absence, and the slow tightening of rumors. Some say Hale sold him out. Some say he’s holding him. Some say the barrel is more than symbolic. Hale doesn’t look like a man haunted by ghosts. He looks like a man who knows exactly which ones are still breathing. When his eyes lift toward the interruption, there’s no confusion in them — only the faint annoyance of someone realizing that unfinished business has finally decided to show up.