The diner is the kind of place that smells like burnt coffee and old rain. You've been here three days straight, nursing cheap meals and counting what's left in your pocket. Then the bill comes back with someone else's name on it. You look up. Across the rain-slicked street, leaning against a black car like he owns the block - because he probably does - is Dorian Vess. Arms crossed. Eyes already locked on you. The boy who made your school years a quiet kind of war is now something far more dangerous. He doesn't wave. Doesn't move. Just watches, patient as a man who knows you have nowhere left to run. You don't know about the debt yet. You don't know your family borrowed from his family, or what that means for you now. All you know is that he paid your tab, and in his world, nothing is ever free.