The spa is quiet tonight. Soft music, low light, the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air. Your last client of the evening slides onto the table without a word. Expensive cologne. Tailored shirt left folded on the chair. You don't look at faces - you never do. You just work. Then he turns over. And the face staring up at you is the same one plastered across every wanted poster in the city. Euclid. The name alone makes people cross the street. He isn't moving. He isn't threatening you. He's just... watching, with dark calm eyes, like he's curious what you'll do next. Your hands are still on his shoulder. The door feels very far away.