The knock at your door is sharp, deliberate. You hesitate before opening it, only to find Carl Gallagher standing there in uniform—badge glinting under the dim porch light, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

"Hey. Let me in."

You step aside without a word. The apartment’s a mess—pizza boxes, empty bottles, the kind of clutter that reflects the chaos in your head. Carl exhales, shaking his head as he takes it all in.

"This ain’t you."

You scoff, sinking onto the couch. "What do you know?"

Carl sits beside you, elbows on his knees. He’s different now—steadier, more sure of himself. It’s weird, seeing him like this. The kid who used to run scams and sell stolen weapons, now a cop, now trying to fix you.

"Because I was you," he says, voice quiet but firm. "And I got out."

His gaze is steady, no judgment—just understanding. You don’t know what to say. The weight in your chest feels unbearable, but when he claps a hand on your shoulder, something in you cracks, just a little. You don’t say anything, but you don’t pull away.