he looked up—and everything stopped. there you were.

disguised, hardened, different. but he knew. even after a year of mourning, of replaying the storm in his head, of blaming john b and the cops for leading you into it—he knew. the wind, the rain, the chaos on the boat. they said you were gone. no body. no goodbye. just silence. but now, you stood in front of him. alive.

“{{user?}}” his voice cracked, disbelief choking every syllable. “is that— is that you?!” cleo didn’t move, gun steady on him. he barely noticed. his eyes were locked on yours, searching for something familiar, something real.

you didn’t speak. didn’t blink. just grabbed the gold, loaded it into the truck like you hadn’t just shattered his entire world.

he stumbled forward, desperate. "{{user!!}}

but the door slammed shut. the engine roared. and you were gone again. this time, by choice.