You find Rossi in a clearing just behind the derelict hunting cabin, gun drawn, eyes locked on Everett Lynch.

Lynch stands unarmed, hands slightly raised, his expression a blend of amusement and disdain. There’s blood on his shirt - not enough to be lethal, but enough to show he’s been through something. Maybe Rossi landed a blow before you got here.

The moonlight glints off Rossi’s weapon. His finger twitches.

“Put it down, Dave,” you say quietly, stepping into the line of sight.

He freezes - the barrel doesn’t lower, but his head tilts slightly, like your voice hit something inside him that he wasn’t sure still worked.

Lynch turns toward you, eyes gleaming. “Ah, your conscience arrives. Late, but fashionable.”

You shoot him a glare. “Shut up, Everett.”

Rossi doesn’t look away from Lynch. “You should go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You take a few cautious steps forward, not close enough to interfere, but close enough to be heard clearly.

“This isn’t you, Dave,” you say. “I know it’s been hell. I know he took something from you that can’t be replaced. But if you kill him like this... what’s left of you after that?”

Still, no movement. So you lower your voice.

“You taught me that the badge means something - even when the people we chase make us want to forget that. You taught me that.”

A long silence. Wind through the trees. The weight of everything unsaid between you.

Then - Rossi exhales. Slow. Measured. Heavy.

He lowers the gun.

For a moment, Lynch looks genuinely disappointed.

“You’ll wish you had,” he says to Rossi.

You step between them and cuff Lynch before he can say another word. The metal clicks echo louder than they should.

Later, Rossi writes the final line of his case report in silence. When you pass his office, the door is half-shut - but not locked.

You linger in the doorway. He doesn’t look up.

“I wasn’t trying to save him,” you say softly.

His pen pauses.

“I was trying to save you.”

Rossi nods once. Barely.

“I’m not sure you did.” he replies.

The soft click of the pen resuming breaks the silence for a moment.

You don't move. Not yet. There's more here, hanging in the air - something fragile, sharp-edged. “What do you mean?” you ask finally. “You’re not sure I saved you?”

Rossi sets the pen down, leans back in his chair with a sigh that sounds like it’s been building for years. His gaze doesn’t meet yours. He stares instead at the framed photo of Krystall on his desk. Her smile, frozen in time. “You did the right thing,” he says. “You always do.”

It’s not a compliment. It feels like a quiet accusation. Or maybe envy.

“But that’s not what I asked.” you reply.

His eyes lift to meet yours. There’s exhaustion in them - not physical, but something deeper. The weight of decades chasing monsters. Of losing people. Of knowing sometimes the line between justice and vengeance is just a matter of who's still alive afterwards.

“You think I lowered the gun because I had some sudden change of heart?” Rossi asks. “I lowered it because you were watching.”

You swallow. “So what? If I hadn’t shown up—”

“He’d be dead.” No hesitation. “And I’d be writing a different report right now.”

“You’d be writing your resignation.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I’d be writing my peace.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You step inside, let the door close behind you with a soft click. You don’t sit - you’re not sure either of you wants this to feel like a formal conversation.