Recognition didn’t hit all at once.
It came in pieces.
The shape of the jaw. The line of the mouth. Something in the eyes—even half-lidded, even gone.
Sage’s focus narrowed.
He gazed at the photos, letting the details line up against memories that hadn’t been called up in years.
A corner. A winter that never seemed to end. Running jobs for food. Sleeping where you could.
A face in the blur of it.
Not close.
Not important.
Just—
there.
“Another lost boy,” Sage whispered.
The words came out flat. Not for anyone else.
Law heard him anyway and stepped closer. “You sure?”
Sage exhaled once through his nose, gaze still on the file.
“He ran with us for a bit,” he added, voice just as low. “Didn’t stick around long.”
Boston shifted behind him. “You know him?”
“Knew him,” Sage said.
Past tense.
Memphis glanced over, reading the tone more than the words. “Name?”
Sage nodded once. “Cain,” he said quietly.
Law’s voice came in low, close. “From when you were kids?”
Sage didn’t answer right away.
He let the pieces settle.
His gaze hardened slightly, not outward—focused inward, tightening around the pattern.
Law crouched, pulling a creased photo from beneath the chair. He handed it to Sage.
Cain stood in it. Alive. Still.
Next to him stood the man from the alley.
Rook.
Sage’s jaw tightened.
