Whenever someone's birthday came and, for some reason, Kyle couldn't be present, it was standard procedure, for him, to have their gift delivered with a short "Happy Birthday" note inside the wrapping and consider the ordeal resolved. But the latest birthday he had missed wasn't just any birthday. It was the birthday of one of the few members of that select group of people Kyle called his best friends –– the group of less than half a dozen people that he truly loved and trusted, for whom he would kill and die –– and, for that reason he couldn't just have something dropped at Seth Russo's door and deem it dealt with. So, the moment his flight from Heathrow landed on Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson, Kyle hopped in his car and drove to his best friend's place. On the passenger seat, was a box, minimalistic as can be. Plain cardboard-beige with a black ribbon tying it shut. Inside it, was one of those birthday gifts he secretly took proud on –– handpicking presents was an art he had mastered through the course of his life, something that came with noticing every small detail about everyone and everything –– a black Breitling Transocean, a bottle of scotch straight from Scotland, and a brand new set of gloves. It didn't take him long to arrive at Seth, and when his best friend opened the door, a genuine smile colored Kyle's features –– it wasn't as big and bright as his brother's, but it was still just as truthful ––, "Happy belated birthday, man."