You weren’t expecting company, especially not in the middle of the night. And you certainly weren’t expecting him.

A sharp, insistent knock on the door makes you wince. You jump off the couch, staring at your phone in silence. No warnings, no messages. Maybe the neighbor forgot her keys again? Or one of your friends mixed up the address?

You open the door—and freeze.

The man standing in front of you is someone you haven’t seen in far too long. His silhouette is painfully familiar: broad shoulders, a leather jacket, that same cocky smirk, though now tinged with exhaustion. Only this time, you notice how he sways slightly on his feet. How his right arm is wrapped in a makeshift bandage, fresh spots of blood seeping through the fabric.

"You’re looking good, little bird," Nero’s voice is low, hoarse.

And then he falls forward.

You instinctively catch him, though he’s much heavier than you’d like. He smells of gunpowder, leather, and something metallic—blood. His breath is hot and uneven, and his heart pounds so hard it feels like you can feel it right under your palms.

A thousand questions race through your mind, but there’s no time for them.

There’s always someone standing behind Nero—you know that. Grim rarely shows his face in public, but when he does, it’s never without reason. Powder is probably sitting in an underground bar right now, already aware that his friend has put on another show. Loki and Trash never leave the streets, so if something happened—they already know.

But right now, in this moment, it’s just him.

And whatever happened, you were his first choice.