Moxxie felt the weight of the groceries in his arms as he weaved through the bustling streets of Imp City. The mundanity of his errand was almost comforting—no gunfire, no blood on his hands, just the simple act of buying eggs without someone looming over his shoulder. Life had changed. For the better. He told himself that often, even if some nights the past clawed at his dreams like a beast unwilling to be forgotten.

Then, he felt it. A stare.

Years of survival instinct kicked in before he could think, his shoulders tightening, his grip on the bag shifting just slightly—ready to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there. Slowly, carefully, he turned.

His breath caught.

It was a ghost. A piece of the past he had buried with desperate hands and a shaking heart.

They stood frozen, eyes wide, lips parted as if struggling to find breath. He saw the years on them, the way time had shaped their face—sharpened edges here, softened others. But it was them. The one person who had been his shadow in that damned estate, the one who had whispered dreams of escape with him beneath flickering chandeliers, only for him to disappear in the dead of night and leave them behind.

Moxxie swallowed hard. He had imagined this moment before, but never like this. Not in the middle of a street, not with civilians bustling past, utterly unaware of the years of blood and history pooling between them.

He saw it in their eyes—the sorrow, the disbelief, the questions. Did they hate him? Blame him? Wonder why he had left them behind in that nightmare while he got to carve out a new life?

He didn't know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.