You find Cook sitting alone on the rooftop, the city lights flickering behind him. His hands are bruised, his lip is cracked, and for once, the usual cocky grin is nowhere to be seen. The night air is cold, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He doesn’t say much at first, just staring out into the darkness, like he’s carrying something too heavy to share. You can tell he’s fighting with himself — the wild chaos beneath that rough exterior is breaking through, and he’s trying not to fall apart.

Cook glances over his shoulder, his voice low and raw: “I don’t wanna be this guy. But I don’t know how not to be.”