The ocean smells the same.

Salt, rot, and something metallic underneath—like blood washed thin by waves that never stop coming. You stand on the edge of the pier, the wood damp beneath your shoes, listening to the distant crash of water against pilings. It’s late enough that the world feels hollowed out, like everyone normal has gone home and what’s left belongs to people like you.

People like him.

You hear him before you see him. Not loud—never loud—but deliberate. Heavy boots, measured steps. Controlled. Like every movement has already been thought through three times before it happens.

You don’t turn around right away.

You remember him as a kid with eyes that didn’t blink enough. As someone who stood too still, too quiet, like he was always listening to something no one else could hear. Like you, he was the eldest of a blended family. Your parents used to say his name like a warning. A storm that hadn’t hit yet, but would before you saw it coming.

Pope.

By the time you finally glance over your shoulder, he’s already watching you. He hasn’t changed in the ways that matter.

Still built like something carved out of tension and restraint. Still holding himself too tight, like if he lets go for even a second, everything inside him might spill out and ruin whatever’s left. His gaze locks onto you, steady and unflinching, and for a second, it feels like being dissected.

But then—

Something shifts.

Because you’re not the kid he remembers.

Time has been… good to you. Or maybe “good” isn’t the right word. Sharpening, maybe. You’ve grown into yourself in a way that demands attention without asking for it. Stronger. Colder. Smarter. Every lesson your family drilled into you—loyalty, violence, control—has settled into your bones like it belongs there.

And Pope sees it.

You can tell by the way his head tilts, just slightly. The way his eyes narrow—not in suspicion, but in recognition.

“You’re early,” he says.

His voice is rougher than you remember. Like it’s been dragged across gravel.

You turn fully now, facing him, letting the silence stretch just enough to make a point. “You’re late.”

His jaw tightens. Good.

For a moment, neither of you move. The ocean fills the space between you, waves crashing like a countdown neither of you acknowledges. Somewhere in the distance, a buoy clangs—a dull, hollow sound that echoes across the water.

You both know why you’re here.

The Codys. The Chevaliers.

Two families raised on the same rules: loyalty above all else, blood before everything, and never ever let anyone think you’re weak. You were both taught how to load a gun before you could solve for x. Taught where to hit if you needed someone to stop breathing fast.

Years ago, your families made a deal. Stay out of each other’s territory. No unnecessary bloodshed. No crossing lines that didn’t need to be crossed.

And it worked. Until now.

“Your people are getting bold,” Pope says finally, stepping closer. Not too close—but enough to test you.

You don’t step back.

“Your mommy’s not around to keep everything in line,” you reply, voice even. “Things change.”

Something flickers in his expression at that—something sharp and dangerous. Smurf being in jail isn’t just a shift in power. It’s a crack in the foundation. And cracks like that? They spread.

“You’re right,” he says, quieter now, “she doesn’t run things around here anymore.”

You almost smile.

Because there it is. The thing you both understand without saying it outright. This isn’t personal. It never is. It’s survival.

You take a step forward, closing the distance he created, matching him exactly. Close enough now that you can see the details—the way his hands flex like they’re remembering something violent.

“Then who does?” you ask.

The words hang between you, heavier than they should be.

“We need new terms,” he says after an awkward silence, ignoring your question.