Spy had always planned to wind up back at this door. It wasn't notable or particularly memorable, but it held a place in his infamously cramped heart. The paint had chipped over the years, leaving the edges a cacophony of different whites and light blues, and the apartment number- an unpolished brass eight -hung upside down in the center. Last time he'd been here, the entryway had just been given a fresh coat of white and the eight had been recently replaced. That had been fifteen years ago.

He knocked twice, lightly, with his near-hollow briefcase sitting by his heels.

The door was opened not a minute later by a woman who had, for all intents and purposes, passed the prime of her life. Her hair still shone as dark as it ever had, but it had taken on that new sheen of dye. Her eyes, though weary and red, were no less vibrant than the day he'd left her in front of that very door.

"Scarlett," He moved to greet her in his own European fashion, though the notion appeared a bit too intimate for her, "I received your letter."

"So there's no more I gotta' explain to you," She surmised, inviting him inside with a wave of her hand, "I can't believe I called you back here for this. I know it ain't right, and I know he oughta serve his time, but… god damn it, he's only fourteen."

Spy took his briefcase inside with him, setting it down on a nearby end table. The apartment was sparsely furnished, and what furniture there was appeared to have endured some significant wear and tear over the years. Though, to be fair, seven young boys in a household could certainly do that to a place. "Fourteen? Your youngest, then."

Many years ago, their meeting would have been much more passionate. More lively. But that time had long since passed, and this—well, this was Scarlett calling him up to collect on an old promise.

"Yeah. Scout. I don't think ya' ever met him. He's a… handful. Reminds me of his dad."

"Unfortunate." Spy wasn't sure if he was commenting on the name or on the situation. "His name is Scout?"

"Oh—nah, that's just what he goes by. We—I named him Scott, but when he was little he always doubled the O instead of the T, and the nickname grew up when he did. Stopped callin' him Scooter a couple of years ago." She looked somewhat nostalgic, and Spy opted to change the subject for the sake of saving time.

He spoke delicately but concisely, to Scarlett's benefit. "I see. And he's been arrested for homicide?"

She nodded hard, eyes downcast.

"And you think he's guilty?"

This time, there was a pause. Another hard nod. She was on the verge of tears, and as a strong Boston woman, the expression didn't fit the frame of her face.

"You know I'm not a detective, Scarlett." What he said was more of a warning than a reminder. She was well aware of his line of work; she had always been well aware. Back when he was younger and stupider, he'd worn the title of assassin like a feather in his cap—a mistake he still paid dearly for today. "I'm not here to prove he's innocent."

"I know. But they'll kill him once they get the verdict, and—I can't l-lose—" She was about to cave in on herself, and Spy let his hand rest on her shoulder as the last support.

"You won't, mon petit. But, if you want him to live, you're going to have to trust me. Things will get worse before they get better." He knew it wasn't what she wanted to hear. He knew she wanted him to make this problem go away, and under other circumstances, he might have been able to make it happen. However, considering the man Scarlett's son had killed was one of the most infamous crime bosses on the East coast, his hands were tied. There was no way he could kill every bribed witness or placate every corrupt judge. His approach, he knew, would have to be much more direct. "After I leave, you won't see me again for a while. You won't see your son for a while, either."

"But he'll b-be safe?"

"He will."

As he said it, she seemed to crumple in a different way—the way a man relieved of a heavy burden might fall to the ground after the weight was lifted. She exhaled the words, "Thank Christ," before resting her head in her hands.

Spy knew that he had caused her undue worry by cutting it this close. The boy's trial was tomorrow, and if Scarlett's state was any indication, an execution would soon follow. Fortunately, he'd always been told he did his best work under pressure.

He turned to leave, his steps soundless, "Tell no one I was here."

He was confident she knew how this worked by now. He didn't exist, and if he did, he certainly didn't exist here and now. She had seen nothing, talked to no one. He was a ghost, leaving nothing in his wake and forging ahead without perceivable direction.

"I know," Her voice filtered through, muffled by her hands. When she looked up again, the air caught in her throat holding something she'd meant to tell him for nearly fifteen years, he was gone. The door with the chipped paint hung open, letting the darkness of her empty apartment leak out into the hallway.

Scout had been in jail for three months, and he hadn't received a single visitor. He didn't care much. Hell, he made himself not care at all. He was glad, even, that his Ma hadn't come down to the station when he'd been picked up. He was happy he hadn't seen her when he'd been moved up to the state level. In fact, he'd be just fine if he never saw her again. He wasn't afraid of jail, or prison, or the trial. He didn't need his Ma to lie and tell him it'd all be fine. He was fourteen, for christ's sake! He'd killed a guy, and Scout had never heard of a killer that wanted his Ma.

It was because of that three month flatline that he was so surprised when the officer overlooking his block stopped to unlock his cell door.

"Scott, you've got a visitor." He said, tone flat and gruff.

He stood up, leaving the bottom bunk and his belligerent cell-mate behind, and followed the chief down the line to a place he hadn't been yet. On either side, locked cells held back guys four times his size and eight times his strength, but they didn't crowd the bars as he walked by. Prison was rough, but not wild. Most everyone that ended up here had either been here before or was here for life, and knowing that this was it—well, it could curb you. That's what his cell-mate had said, anyway.

He couldn't help trying to look around the corner as they approached. Not because he was excited to see his Ma, but because—because—

Okay, maybe he did want to see her. Maybe he wanted to see her and tell hereverything was going to be okay, because it wouldn't be a lie. Not when she heard it, not when it was about her.

Before they passed through the door, Scout was already looking back and forth through the long shatter-proof windows. He saw an older lady and a man dressed in orange arguing—a guy with a kid in his arms (why would you bring a kid to prison, Scout asked himself) talking to a woman, and a lot of empty tables.

"He's waiting at the last table in the back." The officer told him, motioning him inside and positioning himself by the door. "You've got half an hour."

Scout squinted like it would help him see better, trying to pin down the 'he' he was supposed to be looking for. Maybe it was one of his older brothers that hadn't been shipped off? He hadn't seen any of them in ages, but considering he might get kick the bucket soon, seeing one of them crawl out of the woodwork wouldn't be too farfetched.

But no. There was only one person sitting at the farthest table, and it was a man Scout had never seen before. He had dark, graying hair and a hawk-like nose, but his eyes looked sharp. He looked up when Scout entered, but his expression remained otherwise unchanged.

Seeing as he didn't look away, Scout put two and two together and found a seat across from him.

"Who the hell're you?"

Spy raised his brows. An abrasive brat, then. "My name is Adam Smith. I'm a friend of your mother's."

"Sure you are." That had to be the fakest name Scout had ever heard. "She's gotta' lotta' friends, don't she? She's just a real friendly type. What, you sleep wit' her and not have enough cash? She hooked you into comin' here and tellin' me something?"

"No. She's collecting an old favor." He exhaled, "Rather, she's calling me on a promise I am beginning to regret making."

"Do I look like I care? Get to the point. I only got half an hour."

"Fine. You've plead innocent to the charges against you, yes?"

"Fuckin' right."

"Your mother told me she knows you're guilty." There was a beat of silence. A sharp breath. Spy could see he was hurt. "Unfortunately, given the evidence, I am inclined to believe she is right. You know what follows. You're found guilty, and then you'll be hanged."

He saw the fear pass through him. It was something the boy knew, but hearing it said aloud was—to use a purely American expression—a different ball game. What Spy said next, however, changed the mood entirely.

"I have been there myself."

Scout seemed a bit less fearful, a bit more curious.

"I was a bit older than you, I believe. Sixteen. I had been rightfully accused, and I thought for sure I was going to die. I couldn't come to terms with it. I was terrified. But then—but then something entirely unexpected happened."

Scout waited for him to continue, and egged him on. "What?"

"I got a second chance." He paused, "And so will you."

It was at that moment that Spy saw what he'd been looking for. Some kind of interest, some kind of hope.

"Alright, gramps, I'm listenin'."

Scout knew this guy was a complete stranger. Ma had told him, never talk to strangers. Never follow them anywhere, don't get in their vans if they're offering you cash or candy. But, here and now, he was in prison. He was in prison, and he knew if he didn't do anything, he was going to die, and he did not want to die.

Spy sat back in his chair, digging around in his coat pocket for a moment before placing a small box on the table. "This is one of my most valuable possessions, and I am going to let you borrow it. It's a watch. If you do exactly as I say, it will get you out of here. Understand?"

Bullshit, Scout thought to himself, picking the box up and tossing the lid aside. He'd admit it was a nice watch; really new age.

Not new age enough to somehow stage a prison-break, though. He looked back at the guy with skepticism written all over his face, "Is this a fuckin' joke?"

"Follow my instructions and see for yourself."

With no other options, Scout decided he had to have a little faith. At this point, it was all he could do.

Scout watched the lights blink out down the hallway one by one as six P.M. rolled around. He'd met with Adam Smith—if that was his real name—around noon. He knew all of this because he'd kept the watch. The guards had inspected it, but as they saw nothing wrong, they let him keep it. Gave him a look that said he was going to get his ass beat for wearing something so glitzy around the cages.

He kept his sleeve tugged down over it all day. No one gave him shit. No one ever gave him shit after his first week, after they learned who he ran with. Boston's East End could dish out hell.

So, there he stood. He made it through the day without getting mugged, and now he was into phase two. He waited until the hall had gone completely dark, until things got quiet, and then he shouted as loudly as he could.

If he sounded like he'd just been stabbed, that was what he was going for. Get their attention. Get the door open. Phase one.

His hand hovered over the watch; hit the button, wait, and run. Hit the button, wait, run. Hit, wait, run. He saw the flashlight bouncing down the hallway along with the heavy steps of the night guard, quickly followed by a breathless "What's going on down here?"

Scout's cellmate was glaring daggers, finding his way to the floor from the top bunk, and in a moment of brilliant defiance that would later be remembered as not so brilliant, he said: "Joey's beatin' the crap outta me! Get 'im off!"

Consequently, Joey swung to beat the crap out of him. Joey, at this moment, was two things. He was, first and foremost, a simpleton. It was an unfortunate life-long affliction that had resulted in life-long incarceration after a brief affair with cocaine. He was also—only at this moment—tired, grouchy, and trying to go to sleep.

Fortunately for both parties involved, Scout dropped before the fist could connect. The guard shined his light in at just the right moment; Scout's dodge looked a lot like cowering, Joey's punch looked a lot like a punch, and, well, it warranted some intervention.

The guard fumbled for his keys. Joey turned to find his target in the unstable wave of the guard's light. Scout ducked away, tripped over Joey, and in the chaotic panic, hit the watch.

There was a faint sound not unlike air being sucked into a vacuum. He was still crouched low, and the guard had managed to open the door. He cast the light around wildly, causing Joey to stumble back at it's intensity, and Scout saw his opportunity. Without thinking, he cut sharp around the guard and out the door. His steps were light and nearly silent, and he realized he was going to get caught. He was going to get to the next door and he was going to get caught.

This was a joke. One of those fake charms that dished out fake confidence. This watch wasn't special. He was out of his cell and his heart was beating like mad and there was no way he was going to make it to the end of the hallway and through the door. He needed a badge to open the door. There were cameras. He was on camera.

Fuck that guy. Fuck that Adam Smith guy with his shitty American accent and his fake-ass watch.

He slowed down as he got to the next door, giving up out of devastation. The door was locked, he was screwed.

He could barely hear the commotion behind him as the first guard called that a prisoner was missing, and through the door he saw the officer that had taken it upon himself to answer the call of chaos. Scout screwed his eyes shut against the light, meaning to put his hands up, but the light faded and the officer passed him by.

He couldn't believe it. He couldn't fucking believe it. He'd just been passed by. He'd been standing in the middle of the hallway and he'd just been passed by. It was all he could do not to laugh at the impossibility of the situation.

It was the creak of the security door that caused him to refocus. Right. Phase 2, soon to be phase 3. He practically leaped the last few feet to catch it before it closed, slipping through before letting it shut with the ka-thunk of an industrial deadbolt.

He was out. All he had to do—literally all he had to do—was walk past the secretary and out the door. He inched around by the wall, still wary of being seen, but he secretary didn't move. The only sound in the room was the tap-tap-tap of her fingers on the typewriter and her occasional chronic sniffle.

He barely opened the door, slipping out silently, and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He had done it. It wasn't anything from mission impossible, but it had just clocked in at the third most stressful thing he'd ever done in his life. Exhaling in an attempt to breathe out all of the anxiety, he faced the open night air for the first time in three months. The parking lot gate was open, the streetlamps were lit, the road was silent, and the night was clear.

"Phase three", he remembered the man saying, "Find me three blocks north of the complex."

Looking between his watch and the road to freedom, Scout had only one thought; Well, fuck that.