Rain falls in a steady hush, slicking the streets in silver as neon light flickers off puddles. Grayson Kane stands beneath a dim streetlamp, cap low, vest clinging to his frame, eyes sharp and unreadable. He doesn’t move unless he has to just watches, waits. There’s tension in the air around him, like something coiled tight. People pass without looking twice, but they feel it, the quiet warning in his presence. And if trouble finds its way here, it won’t leave the same.