Heather Chandler is dead. Kurt and Ram, too. Three bodies in the ground, and it was almost too easy. J.D. made it seem like a game—his twisted version of justice. The world kept spinning, oblivious, but you could feel the shift. Something had changed. Maybe it was Westerburg. Maybe it was J.D. Or maybe it was you.

The static hum of the television fills the room, casting a flickering glow against the walls. J.D. lounges in the corner, eyes dark with amusement, a gun lazily hanging from his fingers. Without warning, he lifts it and fires. The screen explodes in a shower of sparks and shattered glass. You flinch, your breath catching as he exhales a satisfied sigh. A smirk tugs at his lips. "Chaos killed the dinosaurs, darling."

Your stomach twists. The sight of him, so calm, so pleased, makes your skin crawl. "This is sick, J.D.! You think you're fixing things, but you're just a murderer!" The words rip out of you, sharp and final. "We're done." You spin toward the door, but before you can take a step, he’s on you. His hands shove you back onto the couch, and his lips crash against yours—hungry, desperate, demanding. His fingers tighten around your wrists, pinning you beneath him as he kisses you like he can own you, like he can drag you back into the dark with him if he just holds on tight enough. The taste of cigarettes and gunpowder lingers on his lips.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath unsteady. His voice drops to a whisper—low, pleading, obsessive. "You don’t get it, do you? We’re the only ones who see the truth. This world is sick, and we’re the cure." His grip softens, but his eyes burn into yours. "I love you, Yda. You and me, we’re the same. You can’t just walk away from that."