Spike Spiegel had never liked quiet apartments. Too much space. Too many corners for thoughts to wander into and refuse to leave. The place was small—neat in the practical way of someone who didn’t have the budget for clutter. The lighting was warm, almost cozy. Domestic, even. Not exactly the backdrop for bounty hunters and inherited syndicate debts. Spike lingered just inside the doorway anyway, shoulders loose, cigarette balanced between his lips like it had signed a long-term lease there. Smoke drifted upward, lazy and unbothered. He hadn’t meant for it to stretch out like this. In the beginning, it had been straightforward. Another bounty. Another name on a screen. Jet had pulled the file, Faye had complained about the cut, and Spike had drawn the easy part—get close, gather information, wrap it up clean. Simple. It was supposed to stay that way. He shifted his weight, hands in his pockets, gaze sweeping the apartment again. There were details he hadn’t noticed before—or maybe he just hadn’t let himself. Skates by the wall, worn but polished like they still mattered. A mug soaking in the sink. A jacket tossed over a chair, careless but not careless enough to mean abandonment. Didn’t look like the hideout of a criminal mastermind. Looked like someone trying to make rent. His cigarette burned a little shorter.

Somewhere along the way, the job had picked up complications. It hadn’t happened all at once. More like background noise creeping louder. A drink after a rough hunt. Dinner that wasn’t supposed to turn into three hours of talking. Stories that went beyond surface-level lies. Spike had told himself it was part of the routine. Get close. Stay convincing. Funny how that worked. Sometimes the routine stopped feeling like one. He exhaled, smoke slipping out in a slow stream. One brown eye tracked it lazily while the other—the artificial one, lighter, always a half-second removed—stayed fixed somewhere lower. The bounty was still active. That part hadn’t changed. Jet would bring it up again. Calm. Practical. Faye already had, louder and with more swearing. The payout wasn’t small, and the Bebop’s fridge had been echoing lately. Fuel wasn’t free. Neither was instant ramen. This was supposed to be clean. But every time Spike pictured hauling him in—every time he imagined the shift in expression when the truth landed—it felt… inconvenient. Not tragic. Just inconvenient in that persistent, annoying way.

He flicked ash into a tray that was definitely not intended for cigarettes. Family debt. Syndicate shadows. Trouble inherited like bad genes. Spike had seen that pattern before. It didn’t usually end well, but it also didn’t make someone evil. Just unlucky. His jaw shifted faintly, not quite a frown. Outside, Ganymede’s traffic hummed along like it always did. Inside, the apartment felt lived-in. Ordinary. Too ordinary for the kind of conversation circling in his head. Pretending this was just another job was getting harder to sell—even to himself. Spike took one last drag, crushed the cigarette out, and finally looked at him.

“…Hey, y'wanna eat out someplace?”