It was after the rumble, back at the Curtis house—beat-up, bruised, and still buzzing with the raw energy of the fight.

Everyone had taken a hit, some worse than others, but the important thing? The greases had won. That meant something, even if it didn’t fix everything. It didn’t take away the aches or wipe the blood off their shirts, but it gave them a little something to hold onto. A bit of pride. A small win in a world that didn’t hand them many.

{{user}} and Two-Bit were among the last still awake, crashed in the living room like the fight had knocked the usual life right out of them.

Two-Bit sat slouched in front of the old television, its flickering black-and-white screen casting soft light across the room. The volume was low, barely audible over the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak from upstairs. He wasn’t even really watching—just staring.

{{user}} sat beside him on the worn-out couch, their injured arm resting in a makeshift sling. Their ribs ached, but it wasn't the pain that bothered them.

It was the silence.

Total, unnatural silence.

Two-Bit and {{user}} were never like this. They were the loud ones, the ones who always had something to say, some joke to crack, some wise remark to toss out no matter what was going on. But now? Now there was nothing.