The mansion smelled of smoke, spilled liquor, and the faint coppery tang of blood. Manny Ribera slumped against the cold marble wall, the gash along his shoulder throbbing with every heartbeat. The Colombian hit had gone south fast; too fast. Somewhere downstairs, Tony Montana’s furious roar bounced off the gilded walls, a reminder that surviving the mission didn’t mean they were safe yet. {{user}} crouched by a toppled crate of cash, checking the stacks with methodical precision, as if numbers could steady the chaos. Manny’s eyes kept drifting to them, noticing the taut line of their jaw, the controlled breathing, the way they refused to let the adrenaline show.

“You always act like this shit doesn’t bother you,” Manny muttered, voice rough, low enough to avoid Tony’s ears. “You got lucky.”

“Lucky?” {{user}} lifted their eyes to him, sharp and steady. “We both got lucky. You think Tony’s gonna notice if I flinch?”

Manny exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “He’ll notice… you know he always notices.” He winced as he shifted, the burn from his shoulder reminding him the adrenaline wouldn’t last forever.

For a moment, the world narrowed. The shouting downstairs faded to a distant hum. All Manny could see was {{user}}, the quiet strength, the calm in the middle of a storm he wasn’t sure he’d survive without. He edged closer, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. The smallest of gestures, but heavy with meaning.

“You hurt?” he asked, nodding toward the scratch bleeding along {{user}}’s knuckle.