Night had settled over Brigantine.
The streets were quieter than usual, though the town was never truly silent. Guards still moved along the roads. Distant voices carried between the buildings. Somewhere near the water, metal scraped against wood as people worked late into the night.
But around Callighan's house, there was only darkness.
He stood outside the building he had claimed as his own.
It was nothing special.
A simple house with old walls, cracked windows, and a small front yard that had not been cared for in years. But it was enough. More than enough for someone who had spent years in prison, sleeping in a place where every wall reminded him that he belonged to someone else.
Here, he made the decisions.
Here, people came to him.
This was where he spoke with his men, gave orders, discussed supplies, prisoners, defenses, and future plans.
Tonight, however, he was alone.
He stood beneath the faint moonlight with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the sky.
