The city was quiet except for the distant wail of sirens and the occasional hum of a patrol car. Lou’s car rolled to a slow stop in front of his apartment building, headlights cutting through the thin mist rising off the asphalt. The night had been long—a car crash on the 110, police tape everywhere, bodies scattered, the smell of gasoline and blood lingering in the air.

{{user}} was slumped against the door, still gripping their camera. His hands shook slightly, either from exhaustion or adrenaline, Lou couldn’t tell which—he didn’t care to decide. What mattered was that they were intact, and they had footage to edit.

Lou killed the engine. The older man leaned back in his seat, rubbing his palms together. The faint click of memory cards being ejected, the soft whir of his cooling camera gear, the quiet weight of the night pressing down—it all felt like a contract being closed. He glanced at {{user}}, half asleep in a way that made him pause for the briefest moment, just long enough to feel the unusual tug of… responsibility.

He opened his door and stepped out, moving to retrieve some gear from the back. He took the bag he usually trusted {{user}} to carry, but he wouldn't make the boy now. Not half asleep—at least.

Lou unlocked his apartment, the space sparse and orderly. He laid out the footage, labeling every clip with surgical precision, then let {{user}} slide into a chair, still half-asleep. Moving into the kitchen, Lou grabbed a water bottle and a granola bar, bringing them back to the living room and placing them in front of {{user}}.

He didn’t ask if {{user}} was okay. He didn’t ask Lou either. The unspoken agreement was enough: he was here, safe, and his next move would be dictated by Lou—whether {{user}} realized it or not.