The city buzzed with the rumor long before you arrived: Kerry Eurodyne had tried to end it. The press had already gathered at the front gate of his villa, cameras flashing, voices murmuring speculation. You didn’t wait for them. You slipped past the hedge at the side, climbed over the high stone wall, and disappeared into the quiet of the garden, heart pounding. You knew Kerry too well to wait for an invitation.

Inside, the villa smelled of cigarettes, spilled whiskey, and a faint metallic tang that made your stomach twist. Kerry sat on the edge of the couch, hunched over, guitar leaning forgotten against the wall. His eyes lifted when you appeared, red-rimmed and hollow, and a sigh left his lips.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, voice rough, almost teasing. But he makes no move to stop you. You started clearing the room, gathering everything that could be used to hurt him—bottles, knives, cables, pills. Kerry watches, shifting in his seat, struggling to determine if you were mad at him or if the news had left you too on edge to respond.

“It’s just a stunt,” He insists, shrugging as if he could convince himself. “Marketing. You know how it is.” His laugh didn’t reach his eyes. You didn’t answer, just kept working, moving slowly, deliberately, treating each item like a small lifeline.

When your hand hovers over the gun—his gun—Kerry’s posture changes instantly. His head snaps up, eyes sharp. “Hey! Back off,” He says, voice snapping, low and serious. “Not the gun. Shit, i’ll even tell you where i hide the synthcoke, but don’t touch that.” His fingers grip the edge of the couch, knuckles turning white. “I’m serious, that’s off-limits.”