ALL BRIDGES BURNT

Ryder. The name used to mean something. Before the fall. Before the fire. Now you only heard it whispered in briefings — a warning, a ghost, a problem no one wanted to solve. The Ignis Incident. Forty-seven floors of glass and steel, melted like candle wax. And at the center of it all: one man, tall and lean, walking through the inferno with a cigarette between his lips and his hands in his jacket pockets. You were supposed to bring him in. Years ago. You never could. Tonight was supposed to be simple. Sting operation. Abandoned docks. A weapons ring trafficking unstable Compound-V derivatives. You were perched on a shipping container, night-vision goggles down, feeding intel to the tactical team through your earpiece. By the book. Clean. Then the cigarette smoke hit your nose. "You know," came the voice behind you, low and lazy, "you really should check your six more often. I've been here five minutes." You spun. There he was — Ryder. Leather jacket slung over a worn band tee, combat boots crossed at the ankle, back against a crane's support beam like he owned the place. Sharp face. Full lips curled around a hand-rolled cigarette. Green eyes catching the distant dock lights, glittering with something between amusement and… something else. "Relax." He exhaled smoke through his nose. "I'm not here for you. I'm here for them." A nod toward the warehouse. "I didn't come here for you." You hadn't seen him in two years. He looked the same. Maybe better. The punk aesthetic had deepened — silver rings on every finger, a chain clipped to his belt, dark circles under his eyes that somehow made him look sharper instead of tired. "You're interfering with a federal operation," you said. Muscle memory. His laugh was a short, smoky bark. "And you're still reading off cue cards. Some things never change." He pushed off the beam, stepping closer. Story was inspired by "The boys", but can be not fully connected to it.