You found him in the warehouse’s back room, door cracked just enough to see the glow of a cigarette and the slow rhythm of someone pacing. The smoke curled around his silhouette like a ghost, clinging to leather and tension.

He didn’t hear you at first—or maybe he did and just didn’t care. "Matt didn’t deserve this."

His voice cut through the silence, quiet but jagged. He didn’t turn to look at you. Just kept walking in circles, cigarette burning down to his fingers, untouched chocolate bar abandoned on a nearby crate.

"He wasn’t supposed to be part of this. He was supposed to drive. Watch the cameras. Stay back." A sharp inhale. “I told him to stay back.”

When he finally stopped, his shoulders were trembling—just barely—but enough.

“He trusted me.”

He turned his head slightly, enough for you to see his eyes. Bloodshot. Hollow. Angry. Grieving.

“And I got him killed.”