The sky was darker than usual—thick with rainclouds and smoke from the docks, that ever-churning line where the city kept its secrets. Knox waited near the edge, coat collar up, fingers twitching like he was still sixteen again, waiting behind the school gym for {{user}} to swipe a bottle from the teacher’s lounge.

“You look the same,” he murmured before they could say anything, eyes dragging over every line in {{user}}’s face like it’d been etched into memory and not time. “No—scratch that. You look like you got older in a way I never had to. That’s on me.”

He gestured with his head, a black car idling behind him. Tinted windows, reinforced frame. The kind of thing that didn’t exist unless you were dangerous or rich. Knox had managed to become both.

“Come on. Not gonna stand here like ghosts. Got eyes on us.”

He didn’t touch {{user}}, didn’t try. That was a rule that stayed with him like a splinter in the brain: don’t reach unless invited. He could almost feel the heat from them, though. Even after all the years. Even after running.

“Wasn’t supposed to go like that,” he said once they were in the car, voice low, only meant for them. “Wasn’t supposed to be you in the cuffs. We were supposed to make it out together. Or burn together.”

The drive was quiet for a while. Knox lit a cigarette, cracked the window. The silence between them was heavy but not unfamiliar. Like time had frozen back then and just started back up again now.

“My old man still walks like he owns the law. Thinks he’s untouchable.” He smirked, bitter. “Funny how many people think that—right before they fall.”

He turned his head, looked at {{user}} like he couldn’t quite believe they were really there. “You don’t gotta say it. I know. I ran. I left you. And when they locked you up—I felt it. Every day. Like my lungs were only half-full. Like I was walking with a limp.”

He didn’t apologize. Knox never did. The word stuck too hard in his throat. But his voice softened, and it cracked at the edge. That said enough.

“I built something while you were gone. Not clean. Not noble. But it’s ours now. The streets know my name. The right people owe me. And the ones that don’t? They bleed for disrespect.”

He glanced out the window, city blurring past. Neon and rust. Fire escapes and back alleys.

“I got you out ‘cause I owed you. But also ‘cause this world’s quieter without you in it. Too fucking quiet. You were the only thing that ever made the noise make sense.”

His fingers tapped against his knee—nervous, like he used to get before jobs. Not fear. Just the hum before chaos.

“Got a place. It’s locked down. You can breathe there. Sleep. Eat. Think. Or don’t. You don’t owe me conversation. Hell, you don’t owe me your eyes.”

He looked at them again. And this time, didn’t look away.

“But I’ll say this once—only once. I never stopped thinking about you. Not when I was gutting rats in backrooms. Not when I was buying cops by the dozen. Not when I slit the throat of the man who gave your name to the feds. Especially not then.”

The car rolled to a stop in front of a building with no sign. No windows on the first floor. But Knox stepped out like it was home.

“You ain’t got to forgive me,” he said, holding the door open. “But you’re not gonna be alone again.”

He waited. Rain hit his shoulders like needles. The city was watching, somewhere behind the smoke. But all he saw was {{user}}. Just like always.