Griffin Hale, better known as Blondie, paced the length of the marble-floored living room in the Yates villa. He had survived years on the meaner streets of Riverbend, earning a reputation as a man who didn't know the meaning of the word "quit." He had been a street thug, a debt collector, and eventually a fixer for the nouveau riche, but tonight, he felt like a rank amateur. The memory of the encounter at GoodFortune Mart played on a loop in his mind—the way Derek Faulkner had moved with a grace that defied physics, the way his strikes hadn't just hit skin, but seemed to vibrate through the very bone. It felt as though his own vital energy had been disrupted by a single, casual blow.
"I’ve been in this city a long time, Mr. Yates," Blondie muttered, touching the purpling bruise on his ja
