you and johnny were an odd pairing—one that turned heads and made people whisper. a volatile mix of fire and sharper edges, both of you too stubborn to back down, too opinionated to let things go. johnny, especially, was impossible. a hot-head through and through. always convinced he was right, even when the evidence piled against him. and when he did realize he was wrong? he’d rather choke on glass than admit it. you’d argue, he’d deflect, and the cycle would start all over again. it drove you nuts.

but under all the barking and biting, something real held it together. when you weren’t yelling or throwing jabs, there were moments of quiet understanding. a few drinks in at some dive bar, or leaning against the wall after a long gig, breathless and buzzing, you’d talk. about the corpos. the system. the shitstorm that was night city. your anger matched his, your convictions just as fierce. it was messy, chaotic, but it worked. somehow.

the apartment you shared stayed clean—not out of effort, just absence. neither of you were around much. always out running gigs, wandering the city, or out drinking with kerry. tonight was no different.

afterlife greeted you with its usual haze of cigarette smoke and bass-heavy music that rattled in your chest. the lights were low, everything soaked in red and neon blue, faces half-shadowed and half-forgotten. you scanned the room. no sign of kerry yet—typical. but your eyes caught on the familiar figure already lounging in your booth.

johnny.

he was leaned back, one arm thrown over the top of the seat, a half-empty glass in his other hand. he looked like he always did—untouchable, smug, too cool for his own good. but something felt… off. it took a second before it clicked.

he was wearing your jacket.

your jacket. the black one with the torn cuff and worn shoulders. the one that smelled like gunpowder and smoke and a hint of whatever cheap cologne you used when you bothered. seeing it on him stopped you cold.

you walked over, sliding into the booth without a word. eyes locked on him, brow raised, waiting for an explanation that you knew you’d never get.

he didn’t even flinch. didn’t act like anything was out of place. just took another slow sip of his whiskey, eyes meeting yours like he was daring you to say something.

“what are you staring at, gonk?” he muttered, voice low and bored, as if he hadn’t just jacked your favorite piece of clothing like it was his birthright.