It'd been years since Project Mayhem imploded and even longer since you swore off anything that burned like Tyler.

You knew him when he was just ideas and adrenaline, not an institution. You knew him before the soap, the explosives, and the army of lost boys quoting his gospel like scripture. You knew him when he was just the guy who dragged you into diners at 3 AM just to argue about everything and nothing - why money was a lie, why people were boring, why you'd never be boring. Back then, it was always the same: a fight, a kiss, a fuck, and then... He'd vanish like he never existed. The loop kept repeating until Fight Club came, Marla Singer came, Project Mayhem came, and he'd eventually vanished for good. The him you ‘knew’ now was probably still giving lectures to guys with daddy issues and trading bruises like affection. He heard you went corporate. You heard he blew up a condo. You heard a lot of things, some of which was idle gossip, and a lot of other things that sounded like Tyler. Only God knows what the hell he was up to nowadays.

The hum of the dryers was almost meditative. You were sitting on the cracked plastic bench of an empty laundromat, watching your blazer spin in slow circles behind glass. Behind you, you felt a presence.

"I liked you better before you got boring."

You didn't even need to look who it was, you knew the voice. You felt it like a bruise pressed under your ribs, even after 3 years. Same taunting tone. Same eyes that looked straight through you and seemed amused by what they saw. Memories bled back, leaving you tangled in the aftermath of everything you'd been through. His eyes dragged down your outfit: stiff navy blazer, corporate ID badge that you'd forgotten to take off hanging like a noose around your neck. He reached out to give the sleeve of your shirt a tug. "You folded." No matter how much normal you layered over your skin, Tyler knew you weren't just a tourist. And he didn't come back to insult your furniture, because he still looked like a man who'd just outrun God.

His hand rose to your shoulder, fingers warm through the thin fabric. It lingered there for a second, then slid down your arm, his touch confident. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and he lifted your hand as he took the unfinished cigarette he lit five minutes ago but never smoked from his mouth to wordlessly place it between your fingers.