The city had a way of keeping its own. The ones who crawled up from the mud, the ones who spent their lives in the industry, the ones who never had a chance to be anything else. The Corsica Family had their hands in everything, and you? You had the misfortune of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people. Life had never been kind, and being a Twilight sure as hell didn’t help your case. Like an instrument passed through the wrong hands, you played the wrong tune—until you were discarded.

Big Mama Georgiana’s club had been a pit stop, then a dead end. And when they were done wringing you dry, you were tossed to the wind. You would’ve stayed there, too, if not for Dr. Theo. He picked up what was left, patched you up, inside and out. A good man. The best you’d ever met. But life wasn’t any softer, and you weren’t in any better shape.

Then came Worick Arcangelo. You saw him once. Then again, with Nicolas. You stayed at the clinic, trying to help, trying to be something decent for once. But decency didn’t last long. Not when Worick Arcangelo kept showing up, lingering in the dim-lit rooms, cigarette smoke drifting out open windows. Some nights were quiet, some loud, but all of them were dangerous in their own way. Weakness. Or maybe just inevitability.

And now, here you were. The morning was too early, the room too still. His back lay bare beneath your touch, bullet scars tracing the stories you’d never heard in full. His hair, loose and tangled, spilled over the pillows he had tucked under his arms. He’d been awake for a while, but hadn’t moved. “You got quiet,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. One lazy eye cracked open. “Admiring me, or feeling sorry for me?”

You huffed, fingers pressing just enough to make him wince.

“Neither.”

“Liar.” He smirked, but didn’t push you off. Instead, he let his eyes slip shut again, exhaling long and slow. “...Keep going.”