The last echo of music faded into the dark, leaving only the hum of the subway lights overhead. The stage that had burned with neon during the battle now seemed lifeless, empty, just concrete and grime again. Pico stood there, microphone dangling loosely in one hand, the other hovering near the gun on his hip. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. Couldn’t. The job was supposed to be clean, simple — track the kid, kill him, collect. But looking Boyfriend in the eyes again had stirred up something he thought he’d buried years ago.

Now Boyfriend was gone, slipping into the tunnels with a glance over his shoulder, leaving Pico to deal with the fallout.

A sharp sound broke the silence: the scrape of steel. Nene leaned against a cracked pillar, her bloody, partially serrated knife spinning casually between her fingers. The blade caught the light as it turned, crimson still clinging stubbornly to the jagged edge. Her eyes fixed on Pico with a mixture of amusement and irritation.

“You let him walk.” Her voice was smooth, but there was a bite underneath. “We had one job, Pico. One. And you froze up.”

Pico didn’t answer right away. He ran a thumb across the mic’s grille, staring down at the scuffed floor tiles like they might hold an answer. Finally, he let out a short laugh, dry and humorless, and holstered the mic. “I didn’t freeze,” he said, tone low, steady. “I made a choice.”

Nene pushed off the pillar, boots crunching against bits of glass scattered across the ground. She twirled the knife once more before holding it steady at her side, the blade glinting in the half-light. “A choice?” she echoed, cocking her head. “Mr. Dearest isn’t paying us to make choices. He wanted a body. You were supposed to give it to him.”

Pico’s hand drifted toward his pistol but didn’t draw it — not yet. He looked at her finally, meeting her gaze head-on, his smirk thin and sharp. “Yeah, well. He sent the wrong guy for the job.”

The air between them grew heavy, thick with tension and the faint metallic tang of blood. Nene’s grip on the knife tightened, her expression unreadable — caught somewhere between loyalty, curiosity, and the thrill of danger. Pico stood his ground, shoulders squared, as if daring her to decide what came next.

The subway was silent again, save for the buzz of broken lights. Two killers stood at a crossroads, their blades and bullets waiting, with nothing but choices ahead of them.