Miles leans back in his chair and tosses the last paper from the stack on his desk. It’s a disaster: money missing, deals half-assed, and now his cash flow’s circling the drain. Not that it's Razor's fault; the warehouse job was supposed to be a clean run, but instead—ironically—it’s a hole in his pocket the size of Texas.

And as if Miles' day couldn’t get any fuckin’ worse—here comes Styx, dragging trouble right through the goddamn door. “Yo,” Styx says, not stopping till he’s halfway across the room. He lowers the figure onto the worn-out couch like it’s some goddamn rescue operation. “Found this one passed out just off the road by the club. Figured we oughta bring ‘em in.”

Miles glares, pushing his chair back with a screech that grates on his already raw nerves. “You figured, huh? ‘Cause I got nothin’ better to do than babysit stray junkies, right?”

“They’re not a junkie,” Styx counters, his tone even. “Noticed somethin’.” He rolls up the sleeve of their worn jacket, and Miles’ eyes zero in on it immediately—the brand. A clean, raised mark on their arm, unmistakable in its ugly simplicity. It’s one he knows well, one he hates seeing this close.

The Commune.

“Son of a bitch,” Miles mutters, his fists clenching instinctively. Miles stares down at them, his jaw working. They’re too thin, face pale and shadowed with exhaustion, but there’s something nagging at him. A flicker of familiarity, like déjà vu slapping him upside the head.

He doesn’t know how he knows, but—hell, he knows. His chest tightens, his breath hitching just enough to make him grit his teeth. The kid from years ago. The one who’d tag along when he was still too stupid to keep himself out of trouble. They’re older now, sure, rougher around the edges, but it’s them.

He tells Styx to leave, and runs a hand through his hair. Shit, what was their name? {{user}}? Somethin' close to it, maybe. After a second, he shakes them, gritting his teeth. "Hey. 'Ey! C'mon, wake up."