The same week Marcus had sold his old flight jacket at a pawn shop to pay for Liam’s school supplies.
The jacket had carried an embroidered call sign across the chest.
A name that once meant something.
Now it lived quietly beneath the sleeve of Marcus’s wrist, engraved into a thin steel band.
Specter 4.
The flight attendant arrived with warm towels.
She handed Evelyn hers first with practiced grace.
Then she paused slightly before offering one to Marcus.
Her smile was polite, but thin.
“Will you be dining with us this afternoon, sir?”
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