Dolores wasn't the only one keeping an eye on him. When Adrian stepped out of the bathroom, a younger employee—a lanky, wide-eyed guy with a nervous gait—approached him. "Hey, uh, Dolores said you need to—"
Adrian moved fast. His fist cracked against the kid's jaw with enough force to knock him out cold. The boy crumpled like a paper bag, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Adrian dragged the unconscious kid into the shadows behind the kitchen, grabbing a steaming plate of food from the counter on his way out.
"Hey!" Dolores barked as she caught sight of him strolling back toward the dining area.
Adrian raised the plate like it was a peace offering, setting it down gently on a table. "Relax, Dolores. I'm just delivering dinner."
Before she could respond, Adrian's eyes locked on the person sitting in the far booth. Her.
The woman looked up slowly, her expression cool and unreadable. Her beauty was striking, but not in the polished, glamorous way you saw on magazine covers. She had sharp cheekbones, dark brown skin that caught the light just right, and piercing eyes that seemed to strip away layers of a person's soul. Her blonde hair was kept in a long ponytail, and she wore a tailored leather jacket that clung to her like armor.
Adrian recognized her instantly. He didn't know her name—she hadn't been a major player back when he was in the scene—but he'd heard rumors. She was ambitious, reckless, and ruthless enough to make enemies out of anyone who underestimated her. Two years was a long time, but Adrian hadn't forgotten faces like hers. He could use that ambition. People like her always wanted something.
Dolores hesitated, glancing between Adrian and the woman. "You shouldn't be here—"
"Dolores, it's fine," the woman said, her voice smooth but commanding. "Leave us."
Dolores opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. She threw up her hands in frustration and stormed into the kitchen, muttering about how she "should've retired years ago."
Adrian slid into the booth across from the woman, ignoring the glare of the man sitting next to her. The guy looked like your typical underground fighter—broad shoulders, shaved head, scars littering his knuckles. He was big, but not in a thoughtful way.
"Hello there, pretty lady," Adrian said, leaning back in his seat with an easy grin. "Can I get your number, or is this your boyfriend?" He nodded toward the fighter.
The fighter growled low in his throat. "Oi, dude, leave. Now. Or I'll—"
Adrian smirked, cutting him off. "Come on, I just wanted to see the new rookie." He jabbed the guy in the chest with his finger, cocking his head. "You're the new rookie, right? What's your name? Thunderclap? Meathead? No, wait—let me guess. Concrete Jaw?"
The man shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You're dead, you little—"
Adrian moved before the man could finish. He grabbed the fighter by the arm, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the table with a deafening CRACK. Plates and silverware clattered to the floor as the wood splintered under the impact.
The woman didn't flinch. She calmly stirred her coffee, watching the scene unfold like it was a mild inconvenience.
"What?" Adrian said, dragging the man back up by his collar. Blood dripped from the fighter's broken nose, his eyes unfocused. "I just wanted to talk like civilized people."
Adrian held the man upright for a moment, then let him go. The fighter flopped back onto the shattered table, groaning weakly.
Adrian turned to the woman, gesturing at the mess. "I think he's a little sleepy."
Maya's gaze flicked to the rookie slumped across the broken table, then back to Adrian. "Always the showman, huh?"
"What can I say? I like to make an impression."
Adrian leaned back in the booth, one leg propped up on the cracked vinyl seat, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth. His appetite hadn't dulled in the slightest, even as his surroundings—the busted table, the unconscious fighter slumped across it, and the eerily calm woman across from him—screamed tension. He was too hungry to care.
"So," the woman said, lacing her fingers together as she leaned forward slightly, her voice smooth and steady, "what can I do for the dead man everyone thought overdosed?"
Adrian paused mid-bite, glancing at her over his fork. "That's what Lou's been telling people?" he said, his tone casual but with an edge of irritation.
"That's the word going around," she said. "Apparently, you took too much of something one night and… that was the end of Adrian Wells. Gone. Buried. Forgotten."
Adrian snorted, stabbing another piece of waffle. "Guess I'm a ghost now," he said, his voice dry as he chewed.
The faintest smirk tugged at her lips. "So it would seem."
To anyone else, the conversation might've sounded easy, light even. But Adrian wasn't stupid. The woman's eyes gave her away. Sharp and focused, they tracked his every movement, every word, like she was piecing together a puzzle. She was testing him, trying to figure out why he'd shown up here tonight.
That was fine. Adrian was doing the same thing to her.
"Simple," Adrian said, his tone steady and deliberate. "A ghost wants revenge on Lou. And I think someone like you—smart, ambitious—can see exactly why that's an opportunity."
For the first time, Maya's lips curved into a real smile. It wasn't warm or welcoming. It was sharp, calculating, the kind of smile that hinted at all the wheels turning in her mind.
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Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story, feel free to check out more chapters and support me on P@treon at P@treon.com/LordCampione. That said, there's no pressure! All chapters will eventually be made public, so your readership alone means the world to me. Thank you for being here!