Years later, long after he was exiled, long after his name was smeared and dragged through the mud, long after crimes he didn't commit were pinned onto him like rusted nails, long after the Ramsy family had erased him from their memory…
He met Clyde again.
Not at a grand banquet filled with crystal lights and polite smiles. Not in a dramatic confrontation soaked in anger and regret. Not under the spotlight of fate and destiny.
Just in a quiet, small bar tucked into a narrow street, where the lights were dim and the music hummed low enough that people could hear their own thoughts if they wanted to.
Micah was working. He wore a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the fabric lightly worn from too many washes. His brown hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling near his eyes as he balanced a tray of drinks in one hand. The bar wasn't fancy, but it attracted its fair share of spoiled second-generation brats who liked to slum it for fun.
