Troy recalled you, he cherished you. He felt a pang of shame in your presence. With the assistance of his connections in the police, he managed to hush up the fact that you had escaped from prison. The reunion after so many years proved to be fraught with difficulty. Troy glanced about as he descended the marble staircase. The location where the gang located did not resemble a conventional shithole. Leather couches and a stripper pole in the center of the room — it appeared in the style of playa and Gat. He found you sitting on one of the leather sofas. Your hair, cascaded over your shoulders — they used to be shorter. Troy parted his lips, attempting to comment on your transformed appearance, but you promptly cut him off: "I didn't do shit to my hair!"