The neon glow of the old hangout flickered over Frankie’s face as he pushed through the door. The familiar smell of stale beer, cheap smoke, and burnt fries hit him instantly. He could still picture it: Benny laughing his drunk ass off, William pinching the bridge of his nose, Tom focused on his next bowling strike, and Pope leaning against the wall, quietly watching the chaos. It had been ages since he’d been here.

And yet, here they were—one by one, walking in like the years had barely touched them.

Frankie smirked, shaking his head. “Here to tease the fuck outta me?”

“Maybe,” Benny said, grinning, stumbling slightly.

“Oh, shut up. Not everything’s about you,” Tom shot back, steady, unbothered.

“The real tease here is that we all knew you got caught up with coke, Catfish,” Pope added, sighing.

“Give him a break. Must’ve been the wind,” William quipped, sarcasm thick in his tone.

Frankie gave them all a middle finger, but then he noticed the someone standing behind the group, quiet, observant. He smirked, leaning back slightly. “I just lost my license… but it seems like you’re trying to replace me, huh? Can that fly better than I do?”

“God, Morales, it’s not about who’s better,” Pope said, voice calm.

“Replacement? What are you, a warranty card?” Tom chimed in, casual, sharp.

“The irony is that your license doesn’t have one,” Benny teased, nudging the group into laughter.

“This one here was recruited because of skills, Francisco,” Pope said, nodding toward the recruit, “not flying airplanes or some shit.”

The banter continued, messy and familiar, as the crew settled into a booth. Frankie took a slow sip from his bottle, watching the idiots place their bets and bowl, and finally leaned toward the new recruit.

“Don’t mind my mouth earlier,” he muttered. “This is just how I usually speak.” It was the closest thing he had to an apology. “So… if you weren’t recruited for flying, what made these idiots take you in?”