Aidan Cromwell sat in the corner of the quiet, dimly lit coffee shop, his fingers drumming against the surface of the wooden table. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on each patron for a beat too long. He didn’t trust easily, and this meeting wasn’t helping his nerves.
The chair across from him screeched against the floor as a man in a gray jacket slid into the seat. Matheson. His once-pristine appearance now had a rough edge—his unshaven face, the dark circles under his eyes, and the faint smell of alcohol hinted at a life that had taken a sharp downturn.
“You’re late,” Aidan said, his voice low but sharp.
Matheson leaned back, his lips twitching into a tired smirk. “Traffic,” he said dismissively, though his tone lacked conviction. “You’re lucky I came at all.”
Aidan raised an eye
