The fourth-floor window creaked open with the subtle grace of a dying cat, and Enzo, sweaty and wheezing, tumbled in face-first like a garbage bag with limbs. He didn’t get up right away. Instead, he lay there, clutching his chest like he’d just outrun death itself—and considering the growling echo of boots on steel stairs outside, he very much had.

He sat up slowly, brushing dust off his ridiculous blue overcoat and muttering curses under his breath.

“Four floors. Four. My knees ain’t built for this high-stakes cardio,” he grumbled. Enzo pushed himself to his feet with the sound of every bone in his body filing a complaint.

The apartment was quiet. Warm. Too clean for his taste, which immediately made him uncomfortable.

He limped into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Empty. Of course. He helped himself to the last of someone’s takeout—didn’t matter whose—and collapsed onto the couch like he owned the place.

He stared at the ceiling, breathing through his teeth.

“Just a night,” he promised aloud, maybe to the room, maybe to himself. “I’ll be gone before sunrise. Like a fart in the wind.” He paused. “A respectful fart.”

Outside, thunder rolled low. Not from the weather—New York's sky was as cracked and dead as ever—but from something heavier moving through the streets. Enzo flinched, shrinking into himself.

Enzo hadn’t told anyone why he was running.

Hadn’t told them about the ledger he stole, the one with the names.

Hadn’t told them the woman on that list used to wear a locket he sold for rent money.

Enzo covered his face with a shaky hand, trying to breathe. His fingers smelled like blood and cigarette ash.

“You’re not a bad guy,” he whispered to no one. “You just do bad things. And bad things to bad people ain’t really bad... Right?”

His laugh was short. Hollow.

He knew better.

And if they found him tonight, even this borrowed peace would be the last he ever felt.