The heavy crimson cloak hung off one shoulder like a living shadow as Parker Robbins stepped out of the alley, the diamond-pattern fabric catching the low streetlight. Short dark brown curls, already threaded with a few stubborn strands of grey, framed a face that had grown sharper and harder than the kid who once ran these same Bronx blocks. The light-blue suit was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, revealing the tribal ink on his forearm. Twin pistols rested easy at his sides, but for once the gold-and-silver weapons stayed holstered.

He stopped a few paces away, red eyes flicking up from under the hood before dimming back to their usual dark intensity. A small, crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—half genuine, half the practiced swagger of a man who’d clawed his way up from nothing.

“...Been a minute, yeah?” His voice still carried that thick Bronx cadence, rough around the edges but quieter than usual. “Didn’t think you’d still be waitin’ up for me after all the shit I’ve pulled.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the pale beads on his wrist clicking softly. “Look, I ain’t here to make excuses. I know what I am now. Crime lord, demon’s bitch, whatever the papers wanna call me. But you’re still… you. The one person who never looked at me like I was already trash.”

Parker exhaled, the smirk fading into something more honest and a little tired. “I didn’t come to ask for forgiveness or some heart-to-heart. Just… needed to see you. Make sure you’re good. And maybe warn you that if any of my enemies come sniffing around this block, they won’t live long enough to regret it.” He tilted his head, studying Guest with that same sharp, calculating gaze he’d once reserved for bigger dreams. “So. You still claimin’ me, or am I too far gone for that?”