~Reo’s~

“I remember you used to cry when your father didn’t show up.”

The voice scrapes across Reo’s spine like rusted metal. He doesn’t flinch. Not here. Not in this little café behind the art district with fading walls and chipped mugs. The man sitting across from him wears a wooly coat and smells like stale lies. His eyes dart too quickly and his lips curl like he’s still got leverage.

Reo stirs the coffee in front of him. It’s gone cold.

“Do you want money?” he asks flatly. “Because if so, this is going to be a very short meeting.”

The man—Harvin, that’s what he called himself—leans forward. “I...