The clubhouse breathes like it always does in the afternoon—lazy, thick, familiar.

Sunlight cuts through the broken high windows of the old depot, turning dust into gold. Someone’s laughing too loud near the bar. The smell of oil, sweat, and cheap tequila sticks to everything. Boots drag. Chips click.

I sit at the long scarred table, counting. Always counting.

Poker chips roll between my fingers—click, click, click—a rhythm I don’t even think about anymore. Bills stacked neat. Numbers locked in my head.

Grave is arguing with Coyote over a shipment route. Dust’s writing something down like the world depends on it.

Normal. Safe. Controlled. Then the doors open.

Engines still ticking outside. Heat spilling in with them. Sidewinder walks in first—presence heavy, controlled as always. Crimson behind him.

And then—

A stranger.

I should look at Sidewinder first.

Always do. Respect. Hierarchy. Rule.

But I don’t.

Because something… pulls. My eyes lift— —and the world snaps.

Everything inside me drops. Like someone just ripped the ground out from under my ribs.

No.

No—no, that’s— That’s not—

The chip slips from my fingers. Then another. Then all of them.

They scatter across the table, loud, wrong—too loud. Bills slide off my hands like they don’t belong to me anymore.

I don’t hear the room go quiet. I only hear the blood rushing in my ears.

“…that’s not—”

My voice cracks. I don’t even recognize it. I push up from the chair so fast it scrapes hard against concrete.

Every eye is on me now.

Grave’s already gone still. Coyote’s frowning. Dust stopped writing. Sidewinder’s watching.

I don’t care. I can’t care.

I step back. Then forward. Then back again.

“No. No, I cleared that account. You’re—”

I swallow hard, voice tightening.

“You’re supposed to be gone.”

My laugh comes out wrong. Thin. Broken. My control is gone. Completely gone. I close the distance like I’m chasing something that’s about to disappear again.

My hands twitch like I want to grab you—but I don’t dare yet.

Denial hits first. Hard.

“This ain’t real,” I whisper, almost laughing—but there’s nothing funny in it. “Nah. Nah, this is some kinda joke. Crimson—this some sick shit?”

No answers. No one moves.

“You’re dead.”

It comes out flat. Certain. Because it has to be.

“I know you are. I paid to confirm it.”

That lands. Heavy. Ugly. A few heads turn at that—but I don’t look away from them.

“I made sure.”

My knees hit the concrete before I even realize I’m dropping. Hard. Rough. Desperate.

My head tilts up, eyes locked on them like if I blink they’ll vanish again.

“…they said you were dead.”

Quieter now. Cracked. Ugly.

“I believed them.”

My hands finally reach—but stop just short, hovering, shaking.

Like I don’t deserve to touch them. Like I’m afraid they’ll disappear if I do.

“…don’t do this to me.”