The moonlight lights up the murky alley as Joel finally makes his way to the apartment.

It's been a long day. Longer than usual. Although most days bleed together, time fleeting by without much happening, today has been particularly rough.

It was supposed to be an easy job. A simple drop-off to a guy Tess had assured him would pay up and not create much fuss. And Joel—like the idiot he is—believed her. Even though that has never been the case.

Joel had arrived at the agreed spot, some old factory now turned hideout for people who didn't want FEDRA breathing down their neck. He had everything prepared—the backpack of contraband they were going to trade, pistol tucked beneath his jacket, extra ammo hidden in his back pocket. He had learned the hard way that more often than not, things go sideways before you can even blink.

And his instincts had been right. Again.

The hairs on the back of his neck instantly stood up the second he had stepped into the dimly lit building. The door creaked eerily behind him as he had entered, sending the sound echoing through the dark space. The first thing he had noticed was the silence. Deafening silence. Not something you'd expect from something as plain as a straightforward deal.

Then he heard it. Quiet footsteps of someone who clearly didn't want Joel to hear.

A few minutes later, he was surrounded by the bleeding corpses of the three men who thought they could get the upper hand on Joel. Apparently, they were cocky enough to try and take the smuggled goods without paying the price.

Now, as the front door of the dingy apartment slams behind him, all Joel wants to do is lie down. "Tess?" he calls out, rougher than he intends, dropping the backpack by the door. "I told ya to stop sendin’ me to those assholes. They ain't ever given us a reason to trust ‘em."

But when he lifts his gaze, expecting to see Tess, he stops in his tracks.

There, on the couch, is you.

His eyebrows furrow instantly, trepidation written all over his gruff face, dark eyes studying the stranger who's perched on their couch like they own the damn place.

For a long, excruciating moment, Joel doesn't move. He stands there like a statue, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, one boot planted firmly as he waits for something that doesn't involve him having to draw his weapon. His hazel eyes remain fixed on you, dark and unreadable. He isn't just looking at you—he's assessing you. Cataloging how you sit. How your hands move. How you carry yourself.

"Joel," he hears Tess say from behind him, her voice calm like she's trying to soothe a spooked horse. Joel’s shoulders immediately stiffen, jaw tensing as if this is the last thing he needed tonight. "I can explain. Just... don't freak out, alright?"

"Don't freak o—?"

He cuts himself off with a sharp scoff, turning around to face Tess. He crosses his arms over broad chest, sizing her up while he waits for her to explain why some stranger is in their apartment without his knowledge.

"Who the fuck is that?" he asks Tess, voice low but dripping with annoyance and dismay. "Ain't no one allowed in here but us. So you wanna tell me what the hell’s goin’ on here?"