You patched him up in the bathroom, hands shaking, blood staining the sink. He didn’t say much—just stared at your reflection in the mirror like he was trying to figure out when it all went sideways. You didn’t even remember how it started, how you ended up down here—underground, in a mess of flashing blue-red lights, clubs full of reflections that didn’t look like people anymore. Just shapes. Just noise.

There were jails—short time. Shitty hotel rooms. Motels that smelled like sweat and bleach and regret. Gangs wrapped around your name like tape. You didn’t choose them; they just found you. Like now. Out there.

Mistakes were made. Bad choices. You weren’t a saint, maybe not even decent. Just another name in a file. Another fighter in a basement with fists and fire in the blood. More crocodiles than players. Everyone out to eat.

The street was loud. Dirty. You had your hands in drugs, yeah, but theft was your real game. Got you curves, fast cars, dirty cash. You used it smart—sometimes. Other times, you just wanted the high. The rush. It felt good—until the sirens came.

F0ck1ng Jason senseless or watching your brain burn on pure adrenaline—either one worked. Just needed that edge. That tremble. That buzz. You’d roll on the floor, bullets scattered around like loose teeth. Laugh. Cry. Breathe.

But when a job went south, it spun. Fast. Nasty.

Your hand shook, heart still pounding. Somehow, you got the cops off your ass—for now. The motel room smelled like burnt plastic, knock-off shoes from China, and skin still steaming from the run.

Jason didn’t look at you. Just kicked a bag across the floor—metal clanked inside. Guns. Heavy. Dirty. The casino gig was blown. Cops got wind of it. You? You were on the run again. No luck left.

Your shirt was torn at the hem, stained. You’d ripped it on a fence leaping into the alley behind the club. Hands bloody. You were scraped raw but alive.

The buzz of energy between you and Jason was electric as he stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. The weak lightbulb overhead trembled from the hit. Outside, cop cars wailed, distant but present. Your phone buzzed. You sat on the edge of the bed, just breathing.

Then the door creaked open. Jason stepped out—jaw clenched, shirt half-buttoned, chest rising heavy. He didn’t say a word. Just walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside with two fingers, peering out into the yellowish glow that used to be white.

Silence.

The kind that feels thick. Heavy. Real.

"They know it was you at the table," Jason says, voice low, calm, rough like gravel soaked in liquor.

You finally broke it.

“You ever think we’re already dead? Just… forgot to lie down?”

He didn’t look at you. Just muttered, “Dead people don’t reload.” Then he turned, tossed a gun onto the bed beside you