The sun had barely cracked through the haze when the first round of gunfire echoed down the street—three sharp pops, then nothing. Just dogs barking, a baby crying in one of the other trailers, and the soft clink of Simon Riley setting his glass back on the porch rail.

Secondhand lawn chair, one arm busted. Feet planted in the dirt. Hoodie sleeves rolled up just enough to flash the ink and scar tissue like armor. His balaclava sat beside him, smoke curling off the end of a cheap cigarette. The bottle was almost half gone, and his stare was the kind that said he’d been up all night.

Then he saw them—walking back from God-knows-where, hoodie zipped up, shadows under their eyes same as his. He watched the way they stepped around broken glass like it was muscle memory. Like they belonged here. Same way he did.

Simon squinted, took a slow pull from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Thought you said you weren’t leavin’ the park today,” he muttered, voice gravel and burn. “Startin’ to think you just say that so I don’t worry. Not that I do. Much.”

They didn’t answer right away, just gave him that look. The one that cut deeper than any blade he’d taken to the ribs. He grunted, looked away like the sun was too damn bright.

“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart,” he said, softer this time, eyes flicking back. “It’s not a drinkin’ problem if it’s the only thing that keeps the noise out.”

Then he paused, gaze lingering. “You hungry? Got beans.” A beat. “Probably expired. Still better than what’s out there.”