Dane went back to his room and locked the door behind him, the little click sounding far too loud in the quiet of the morning. He moved with a practiced economy born of pain and habit — the injured learn to save energy for what matters. He fished his key from the pocket, pulled on a clean shirt and jeans, then knelt by the bed to retrieve the small canvas bag he kept hidden beneath the mattress.From its depths he drew a pistol, cold and familiar in his hand. He worked the slide with one motion, checking the chamber, then loaded a fresh magazine with steady fingers. The motions were ritual now; each click and snap a reminder that the world could change in an instant. He paused, looked at the stitches along his side, at the bandage wrapped around his jaw, and swallowed. He tacked the magazine home and tucked the weapon into the waistband of his pants, the weight both comfort and burden.As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the memory hit him — his bike. He’d left it near the Coin Fl