Chapter 1

The platform at Euston was sodden at half past eleven. Rain hammered the canopy, dripping through gaps onto the concrete. The tannoy crackled apologies in that flat, defeated British way: “The Caledonian Sleeper to Inverness and Fort William is delayed by approximately forty minutes due to earlier signalling issues north of Crewe. We apologise for the inconvenience.”

Riley didn’t care. He clutched his small duffel, hood up against the wet, and felt the familiar low thrum in his belly. He wasn’t running to Scotland for a job or a fresh start. Not really. He was running toward the possibility of being caught, held, filled by someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone older. Someone who knew exactly what to do with a boy like him on a train that never seemed to hurry.

The sleeper carriage smelled of warm metal, damp wool, and cheap air freshener. He found his compartment. Tiny twin-berth, upper and lower, barely wider than the bunk itself. The lower one was already claimed. A man sat on the edge, elbows on knees, staring at the rain-streaked window like he owned the view.

Callum Fraser. That was the name on the reservation slip taped to the door. Sixty if he was a day. Thick silver beard shot through with darker streaks, heavy shoulders under a faded navy thermal, forearms corded and scarred from years of hard work. When he turned his head, his eyes were pale blue and steady, the kind that saw everything and gave nothing away until they wanted to.

“Evening, lad,” Cal said, voice low and rough like gravel under tyres. Highland accent, thick enough to chew. “You’re late.”

“Train’s late,” Riley muttered, shoving his bag onto the tiny luggage rack. “Not me.”

Cal gave a small huff that might have been a laugh. “Fair enough. These things are always late. Thirty-five years on the rails, I’ve learned to expect it.”