You had moved into the building next to his about six months ago. He didn’t know much about you at first—just that you were a girl who didn’t play by anyone’s rules.

He had his suspicions, but he never got too close. People like you—people like him, they didn’t mix. They couldn’t.

But one night, after a late shift, he found himself at the same dive bar he often went to, a place where the world’s problems could be drowned in whiskey and loud music. He didn’t plan on seeing you there, didn’t want to. But there you were, sitting at the bar, your legs crossed and eyes half-lidded.

“Didn't take you for a barfly,” Chris said, sitting down next to you.

“Didn’t take you for someone who’d give a shit,” you shot back, voice thick with a half-drunk laugh. “What’s up, Redfield? Lost another fight with your own demons?”

Chris bristled, his gaze hardening for a moment. But it wasn’t like he had the right to judge. His demons had names, just like yours did.

“Hold on, I need something,” you muttered. Your fingers were looking for something more than just the next drink.

You had your vices.

“Hey—,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t have to do that.”

You smirked, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. “You don’t get it, do you? This is the only thing that makes me forget. Makes the noise in my head go away.”

“Why are you still trying to outrun it?” He asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Your eyes darkened. “What do you care? You’re just some ex-merc who can’t keep his own shit together.”

It was a slap in the face, but Chris didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse. Done worse.

“You think you’re the only one?” Chris muttered, his voice quieter now. “I’ve seen what you’re trying to do. You’re running. Just like everyone else.”

You stared at him, and for a moment, it felt like you were the only two people in the room. You didn’t speak for a long time. “I’m not running. I’m just... trying to feel something.“