You hadn’t seen Jason Duval in years—not since things went south back in Vice City. So when he showed up on your doorstep in the middle of the night, blood on his knuckles and trouble in his eyes, all you could do was step aside and let him in. He didn’t say much. Just one line: ”I need a place to crash. One night.” You told yourself it was temporary. A favor. Nothing more.

But come morning, the city was already buzzing. Sirens in the distance, a black car idling two streets over, and a duffel bag on your floor that definitely wasn’t just clothes. Jason was in your kitchen like he belonged there, sleeves rolled, coffee brewing, acting like time hadn’t passed at all. You didn’t ask questions. Not yet.

Still, something heavy lingered in the air—like this wasn’t just about running. It was about coming back. And as he slid a mug toward you without a word, eyes meeting yours like they used to, you realized something else: whatever mess he was in, he wasn’t planning on leaving alone.