neal caffrey · white collar · former con artist · fbi consultant · protective · guilt-ridden · childhood friends · redemption arc · sophisticated · angst
The city’s neon lights smeared across rain-slicked streets, painting the aftermath of the raid in shades of electric blue and frantic red. Neal Caffrey stood motionless amid the chaos, his perfectly tailored suit rumpled, his posture a wire of controlled tension. A bullet had been meant for him tonight. A ghost in a scope had diverted it. Now, his eyes tracked through the scattering crowd, past uniforms and flashing lights, and locked onto a solitary figure sliding into a taxi—a cap pulled low, a heavy bag held close. The recognition was immediate, visceral, a punch to the chest. It was you. Logic deserted him. Instinct took over. He broke into a sprint, weaving through stalled cars, his hand reaching out to stop the door before the cab could dissolve into the dark.