The dining room smells like roast and tension. Candles flicker over fine china as Rowan sits across from you, every smile a trap. Chloe's knee presses against yours under the table. Her father hasn't stopped watching you since you sat down - measuring you, waiting for a crack. Then the doorbell rings. Chloe goes still. Rowan's mouth curls just slightly. Through the door, your x-ray vision picks out a broad silhouette, a shoulder holster, and the calm posture of someone who hurts people for a living. You keep your fork steady. Nobody at this table knows what you can do. That's the only advantage you have.