Money heists weren’t new to you and Sylus. You’d been pulling them off for as long as you could remember, smooth, clean, and always ahead of the game. But tonight? Tonight was a disaster. Armed bodyguards, gunfire too close for comfort, you barely made it out.

You scrambled onto the back of Sylus’s bike, duffle bags full of cash weighing you down. He revved the engine.

“Hold on tight,” he said.

You did. Arms wrapped around his waist, grip firm. The N109 Zone didn’t care for speed limits, and neither did Sylus. He wove through the streets, pushing the bike hard. From the side, you caught a glimpse of his face, frown, eyes locked on the road. But something about his silence felt… off.

Then you felt it. Wet. Warm.

Blood.

Your stomach flipped. Your hands were slick with it. You want to say something but he cut in,

“I’m fine,” his voice steady, but you knew better.

By the time you reached the old warehouse, your usual hideout, he was moving slower. He shut the rolling shutter behind you, his movements a bit strained.

You watched as he walked straight to the sink, yanking off his leather jacket and peeling his shirt away. The sight made your breath hitch, bloodied skin, fresh bullet wounds.

He caught your reflection in the mirror before you could even speak.

“Don’t.” His voice was clipped.

You opened your mouth again.

“I said don’t.” This time, lower, rougher. “This is nothing.”

And just like that, he started pulling the bullets out himself, steady hands, no hesitation, like pain meant nothing to him.