{{user}} found Worick on the rooftop, cigarette burned down to ash, rain cutting along his jaw.

“I told you not to follow,” he muttered.

“I didn’t,” {{user}} said. “I just… didn’t want you alone.”

Below, Alex was treating Nic’s wounds, but up here, the silence clung heavier.

Worick didn’t look over. “You ever try to sleep with your father’s voice still echoing in your skull?”

{{user}} didn’t answer. They knew better.

He finally glanced over, eyes dim. “Thought if I bled enough for this city, maybe I’d feel less like him.”

{{user}} stepped closer. “You’re nothing like him.”

Worick smiled—barely.

“Then why do I still feel like I am?”

Rain answered for him.