The city’s noise fades into the background, muffled by thick walls and tighter secrets. Alfie’s sitting on the cracked leather couch in the backroom, cigar smoke swirling around him like a storm.

You come in quietly, carrying two cups of something strong and dark, setting one down beside him.

He doesn’t look up at first — just grunts.

“Thought you was asleep,” he mutters, voice rough.

You sit beside him, nudging your shoulder to his. “I was. But then I heard you—”

He exhales a long, slow breath, eyes still on the curling smoke.

“Thinkin’.”

You know that look. The one that means the weight of the world’s sitting on his shoulders, and he’s too proud to say a word.

“Talk to me,” you say softly.

He shifts, finally meeting your eyes, the tough façade slipping for just a second.

“You ever wonder,” he begins, voice barely more than a whisper, “if all this — the fights, the blood, the games — if it’s really worth it?”