The city glows — not golden like daylight or warm like home — but artificial, a neon kind of alive. It dances against the glass, refracted in quiet streaks down your window as your breath fogs a soft oval on the surface. You say nothing. You’re not tired, exactly. Just… slowed. Silenced.

Behind you, voices blur together:

“How the hell is there traffic at 2 AM?” Soap mutters, forehead pressed to the window. “It’s Vegas, Johnny. There’s traffic at funerals here,” Gaz says. “That billboard just winked at me.” “You’re concussed, hermano,” Alejandro sighs. “You fell on your face, not your eyes,” Rudy adds. Ghost hasn’t spoken. He’s beside you in the back, elbow resting on the door, mask turned slightly your way like he’s been watching you not speak. You sense it more than see it.

Price is driving, calm and casual, one hand on the wheel, one on his thermos. You think he keeps the heat on just for you, even though no one says anything about it.

None of them do.

The Strip flies past — velvet ropes, chrome, too many rhinestones, couples drunk on weddings or tequila or both. In another life, you might’ve been in one of those hotel lobbies. Sparkling, loud, carelessly alive. But not tonight. Not anymore.

Tonight, you’re the ghost in the window.

"Pretty, innit?" Gaz asks from the middle row, voice low now.

You nod, not looking at him.

"Doesn't feel real," you say quietly. “It’s all... too much. Like the whole city’s pretending not to be tired.”

There’s a silence. Not awkward. Just… real.

Soap leans forward between the seats. “I kinda love it. The lights, the noise. Makes me forget all the ugly stuff.”

You smile faintly. “It is ugly. It’s just better dressed.”

Price exhales a laugh through his nose.

Alejandro raises his phone, snaps a blurry photo through the windshield. “Proof we’re alive.”

“You always take pictures after ops?” you ask.

“Only when no one dies.”

That lands heavy.

You look back at the window. A woman in a silver dress stumbles in heels. A man with angel wings walks by holding fries and no shirt. Everything’s loud but you’re miles away.

Ghost speaks then, soft, voice gravel-warm and quiet enough only you hear:

“Still like the view better from here.” You turn to him. The streetlights flicker across his mask. You can’t see his face, but you feel it — sincerity beneath the skull. You blink once, nod once, and say nothing.

The Vegas lights pass. And the city just keeps pretending.