The night felt like the true beginning of the rainy season. Mr. Charlie had just met with his son, an encounter that had left him spiraling into frustration. His once-solid plans were turning to ash; the path forward was no longer as smooth as it had been seven years ago.
Inside a weathered, nearly vacant restaurant, two men sat across from a meal that had remained untouched for over an hour.
Mr. Charlie took a slow, deliberate sip of water. Across from him, a middle-aged man in civilian attire—Bram—repeatedly crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, though it was far from finished. Bram was the man Charlie had been seeing frequently of late, the one tasked with ensuring their shared secrets stayed buried.
"You said this case would stay closed," Charlie said, his voice flat.
Bram didn't answer immediately. "And it was… right up until your son got himself arrested."
