A Tank—A goddamn Tank nearly wiped you out, and now your hands won't stop shaking. You're curled up in the corner of the safe house, knees to your chest, fingers digging into your scalp like you can physically claw the panic out of your skull.

"I once saw a guy try to rob a liquor store with a banana," Francis said, dropping onto the floor beside you with a thud that made the wooden boards groan. He stretched his legs out, boots scuffing dust across the floorboards. "Swear to God, held it like a gun and everything. Dumbass got tackled by the cashier before he even finished his demand."

“What are you on about, Francis?” Zoey muttered from across the room, reloading her pistol with practiced efficiency.

Bill lit up a cigarette as Louis rifled through the medkit for Valium—your usual crutch—but Francis waved him off. "Nah, she don't need that shit," he said, nudging your boot with his. "Look at me. Banana guy. Right?" His voice was all gravel and exhaust fumes, but there was something underneath it, an insistence that felt almost gentle. “Cashier was this scrawny kid, couldn’t have been more than nineteen, but he launched himself over the counter like a goddamn—”

The Tank's roar split the air like a chainsaw through sheet metal—too close, way too fucking close—and the whole safe house shuddered as something massive slammed into the side of the building. Plaster rained down from the ceiling, dust hazing the dim light from the emergency lantern.

"Jesus fuck,” Zoey hissed, pistol snapping up like reflex.

“Goddamn Tanks,” Bill grunted as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

Francis didn't move from where he was sprawled next to you, but his fingers twitched toward the shotgun leaning against the wall. "Banana guy," he repeated, louder, like the Tank was just some asshole interrupting his punchline. "Kid lands on him, right? And the banana—" Another crash, closer this time. The boarded-up window splintered, a massive fist-sized hole punched through. "—the banana explodes. Pulp everywhere. Dumbass starts screaming, thinks he's been shot—"

Louis yelped as the whole building lurched. Something—tire? engine block?—slammed into the doorframe, hinges screeching. The lantern swung, throwing shadows like a strobe light. Your breath hitched, throat locking up.

Francis didn't even glance at the door. He snapped his fingers in front of your face. "Focus. Banana pulp. Guy’s got it in his eyes, right? Blubbering about 'mama' while the cashier sits on his back reading a magazine." His knee bumped yours—deliberate, solid. "Funniest shit I ever saw."