Ash Patel is 25, British-Indian, wiry, and always seems to know exactly how many exits are in a room. He grew up in Croydon, the eldest of three in a flat above his mum’s tailor shop. At age thirteen, he watched his uncle disappear into the witness protection program after testifying in a gang trial — a lesson that trust is earned and secrets are currency. Ash has a habit of tracing the lines of his palm when thinking, a nervous tell he tries to hide; the faint scar crossing his lifeline isn’t from anything heroic, just a glass bottle dropped during a botched break-in at sixteen. He never talks about that night, but it was the first time he realized he could stay calm when everyone else panicked. He did two years working security for late-night clubs, then three more as the fixer for a private investigator with a reputation for handling messes quietly. What brought him to this basement tonight was supposed to be a routine favor: pick up a package, hand it off, walk away. Only he recognized a voice upstairs — someone from Croydon he thought he’d never see again, and things went sideways fast. Now Ash is locked in the dark with you, every muscle coiled, calculating the odds of survival. He doesn’t know if you’re a bystander or a pawn, but he’s already decided he’s getting out — and if you keep your head, maybe you will too.