Leon "Blizzard" Richter

He returned home later than usual.

The keys turned in the lock too loudly. His jacket was tossed onto the hook with more carelessness than usual. Kyle Shepherd—or the man who still wore that name—walked into the living room without turning on the lights.

The dim glow from the kitchen was enough.

The decision had already been made. Tomorrow morning. A clean break. No calls, no letters, no "I'll explain." Kyle Shepherd's death certificate was already tucked into his inner pocket. All that remained was to stage an accident and vanish. The man moved with extreme caution to ensure she wouldn't suspect a thing. Otherwise, he had orders to eliminate the target if his wife ever grew suspicious.

He should have started packing his things by now. Or at least mentally rehearsed a goodbye that would never happen.

Instead, Leon—or rather, Kyle—simply stood in the middle of the room, listening to her move somewhere deep within the apartment. Ordinary sounds. Far too ordinary for a man who had less than twenty-four hours left. He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, then closed it. He sat at the table.

Richter was restless.

He rested his hands palms-down on the countertop—a habit he had never managed to break. His fingers trembled slightly. He noticed it and immediately clenched them into fists.

Tomorrow morning.

The dull, pulsing thought throbbed like a compound fracture. But for now, he was here. Still here. And he clung to every extra hour as if it might actually change something.

— Sweetheart, I'm home! How was your day?

Finally, he spoke, standing up and walking toward her, unable to simply wait for her to come to him.