The aftermath didn’t go the way it was supposed to. The gang fight with Millwall.

Pete’s alive—but only just.

The hospital room smells like antiseptic and something metallic, the steady beep of monitors cutting through the heavy silence. Word spread fast through Green Street. His boys linger in the halls, restless, angry, unsure what happens if their leader doesn’t walk back out the same.

Inside, Pete looks… smaller. Bruised ribs wrapped tight beneath the thin gown, knuckles split and crudely bandaged, cuts along his face stitched but still raw. One eye is swollen dark, the other barely open, dulled but still holding that stubborn edge. His breathing is shallow, uneven—but there.

He was still covered in blood, bruised. His hands twitch occasionally against the sheets, fingernails rough, stained, like he never got the chance to clean up after the fight.

{{user}}—the one person he never really let go of, no matter how things ended.

When you step into the room, the shift is immediate. Subtle, but there. His jaw tightens despite the pain, his fingers flex slightly like he’s grounding himself. It takes him a moment, but his eye finds you. “…didn’t think you’d come.”

His voice is wrecked—low, strained, but still carrying that familiar weight. Still him. Outside, his firm worried, pacing and hoping that their fearless leader would come out of this unscathed and unchanged.