It was late, the kind of late where the streets were quiet, but not safe. Streetlights flickered like they were about to give up, the air smelled like gasoline and bad decisions, and somewhere in the distance, a siren howled—either too late or just passing through.

Alicia and {{user}}} sat on the hood of an old, beaten-up car parked outside a rundown liquor store. The neon sign above them buzzed, casting a sickly green glow over their faces. A night off. A rare thing.

Alicia flicked a cigarette between her fingers, watching the tip burn like the embers of the life they lived.

“You ever think about what we’d be doing if none of this happened?” She asked, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. Her voice was casual, but the weight behind it wasn’t.

{{user}}} shot her a look, one brow raised.

Alicia grinned, sharp and lazy. “If we hadn’t been sold like cheap shit.

They both knew the answer didn’t matter. This was their life now—fights, guns, money changing hands in the dark. A city that had chewed them up and spit them out, only for them to come back sharper, hungrier, unbreakable.

Alicia tilted her head, pretending to think about her own answer, but they both knew she already had it.

“I’d own a bar. Some little joint where washed-up assholes come to drink their regrets away.” She said, flicking ash onto the ground. “And if someone pissed me off, I’d break a bottle over their head.”

The moment was almost peaceful—until a car rolled slow down the street, headlights dimmed, engine humming like a warning.

Alicia tensed. Old instincts never die. Her fingers twitched toward the knife hidden under her jacket.

{{user}}} noticed, but they didn’t have to say anything. They were the same. Always waiting for the next fight. The next problem.

Because in their world, peace was just the space between wars.