A quiet one.
That was all Agrippa wanted.
Then the sound of an engine shattered the peace.
A dirt bike roared along the path near the park entrance, its exhaust cracking through the air. Five young men followed it toward the playground. The rider cut the engine beside a flower bed, scattering gravel across the soil and crushing several orange marigolds beneath the front tire.
The man leading the group laughed.
"Beautiful parking job, Trent," one of his friends said.
Trent Maddox swung off the bike and spread his arms.
"You're welcome. That's what talent looks like."
The others laughed too loudly.
Trent was twenty-five, broad-shouldered, and accustomed to being the loudest person in every room. He wore an expensive black watch, white sneakers, and a sleeveless shirt that revealed thick arms covered in tattoos. His smile possessed the careless confidence of someone who had rarely faced consequences he could not talk his way out of.
Beside him walked Mason Pike, a narrow-faced man with a tattoo climbing the side of his neck. Mason filmed nearly everything on his phone, convinced that the internet was waiting for his next moment of brilliance.
The remaining three were Cole, Denny, and Bryce.
Cole was a former high school wrestler who enjoyed reminding people about victories nobody else remembered. Denny was restless and eager to prove himself. Bryce, the quietest of the group, generally followed whoever seemed most likely to protect him from becoming the next target.
They had spent the afternoon drinking behind a closed automotive shop.
Now they wanted entertainment.
Trent surveyed the park.
"Place is dead."
"Then let's make it interesting," Mason replied, lifting his phone.
Their attention moved across the playground, past the empty basketball court, and toward the wooden bench where Agrippa sat.
Trent smiled.
"Look at that."
Agrippa noticed the movement but returned his attention to Larry.
He had spent enough years around aggressive men to recognize the moment when boredom became a search for someone to intimidate. He recognized the exaggerated swagger, the performative laughter, and the way the group kept looking at one another for approval.
He had seen the same behavior in locker rooms, bars, parking lots, and the narrow corridors outside fighting arenas.
The setting changed.
The psychology rarely did.
"Hey, old man!" Trent called.
Agrippa continued watching his son.
Mason chuckled. "Maybe he's deaf."
Trent approached the bench, his friends spreading out behind him.
"I'm talking to you."
Agrippa slowly lifted his eyes.
"Then talk."
For a moment, Trent seemed surprised. He had expected fear, irritation, or perhaps an apologetic smile. Instead, he found a pair of steady gray eyes that seemed almost bored.
Trent recovered quickly.
"What's a guy like you doing sitting here all alone?"
"I'm not alone."
Agrippa nodded toward the sandbox.
Trent followed his gaze.
"Oh. The kid."
"His name is Larry."
"Congratulations."
Agrippa said nothing.
Trent leaned against the back of the bench. "You babysitting?"
"I'm his father."
"Where's the mother?"
The question was delivered with a smirk, deliberately designed to provoke.
Agrippa's expression did not change.
"Not here."
"That's convenient."
Something cold moved through Agrippa's chest.
He could tolerate insults directed at himself. He had spent years being booed by thousands of strangers, and some of those strangers had been considerably more creative than Trent.
But he had no patience for men who used a child's family as a weapon.
"Enjoy your afternoon," Agrippa said. "And give us some space."
Mason raised his phone.
"Listen to this guy. He's giving orders now."
Trent stepped around the bench.
"Maybe you should learn how to speak to people."
"Maybe you should learn when a conversation is over."
The smile disappeared from Trent's face.
Behind him, Cole muttered something that made Denny laugh. Mason moved closer, positioning his phone so that Agrippa and the playground appeared in the same frame.
Several parents began collecting their children.
Agrippa noticed them leaving. He wished they would stay, not because he wanted an audience, but because a public place with witnesses was safer than an isolated one.
Trent noticed the departures too.
He mistook them for admiration.
"Everybody's scared of us," he announced.
"No," Agrippa replied. "They don't want their children around you."
Bryce looked away.
Mason lowered his phone for half a second, then raised it again.
Trent's face reddened.
"You think you're funny?"
"No."
"Then why are you smiling?"
Agrippa hadn't realized he was.
It was not amusement. It was the faint, involuntary expression that sometimes appeared when he recognized a familiar pattern.
Trent was shifting his weight toward his front foot. His right shoulder had tightened. His hands were loose, but his fingers kept opening and closing.
He was preparing himself to strike.
Agrippa recognized every sign.
Seven years earlier, he would have used that information to predict the next movement before it began. He would have calculated distance, balance, angles, and the shortest route to ending the confrontation.