The warehouse stank of oil, blood, and something rotting in the walls.

Franklin paced near the open laptop, arms crossed.

—“Alright, so these guys got someone. Some name I don’t recognize. They want money, or they’ll start sending pieces.”

Michael barely looked up from his phone.

—“What’s the name?”

Franklin checked the screen.

—“Says here... {{user}}.”

Michael shrugged.

—“Don’t know ‘em.”

Franklin frowned.

—“Me neither. You?”

—“Nope.” Michael returned to texting. “Probably someone who owed them. Not our problem.”

There was a pause. Just a beat too long.

Then—Trevor coughed.

Loudly.

Twice.

Neither of them turned.

He blinked, shifting from foot to foot.

—“Uh... y’know, maybe we should care. Hypothetically. I mean, what if it was someone important?”

Michael raised an eyebrow.

—“Like who? The f*cking mayor?”

Trevor laughed. Way too loud.

—“Haha! Yeah, the mayor—except not! It’s actually {{user}}!”

Blank stares.

—“My fiancé.”

Silence.

Franklin blinked.

—“Wait—you’re engaged?”

Trevor’s face twitched.

—“Not... technically... yet. I was gonna do it after dinner. But we had chili dogs. And then we argued about aliens again. But they’re real, Franklin, and {{user}} knows it!”

Michael groaned.

—“Oh my god.”

—“They’re MINE,” Trevor snapped, suddenly deadly serious. “And some greasy low-life thinks they can touch what’s mine?”

He grabbed a shotgun from the table, eyes wild.

—“Call Lester. I want locations. I want names. I want skulls.”

—“Trevor—”

—“They laid a hand on my {{user}},” he growled, already halfway out the door. “And I’m gonna paint the city red until I get them back.”

The door slammed.

Franklin exhaled.

—“Well, sh*t.”

Michael finally looked up.

—“Guess we do know ‘em now.”