Vegas woke up first.

Not the sun. Not dignity. Not clarity.

Vegas.

The suite looks like it lost a bar fight.

Curtains half torn off the rail. One boot in the sink. A hotel ice bucket filled with what appears to be shrimp cocktail and someone’s dog tags. The TV is playing a Spanish soap opera at volume 4 like it’s trying not to get involved.

Gaz wakes up first. He lifts his head exactly one inch before deciding that was a terrible decision and placing it back down on what he slowly realizes is not a pillow but Soap’s thigh.

Soap is asleep on the floor, starfished. Shirt missing. One sock. He has drawn something on his own stomach in permanent marker. It might be a map. It might be a phone number. It might be a manifesto.

Across the room, Ghost is already up, assessing the damage of breaking his one rule to never get drunk, with one swimming thought...

"I have seen worse. I have not seen dumber."

Price is face-down on the balcony. Not dead. Snoring. His hat adorning the courtyard statue several floors down.

The air smells like tequila, cologne, and consequences.

Gaz finally manages to sit up and stumble to the bathroom...and immediately freezes.

On the bathroom sink?

A wedding ring.

Simple band. Gold. Polished. Innocent.

Ghost steps up behind him.

He sees it.

Stares at it like a grenade and brother...

WHERE THE HELL IS THE PIN?

Soap wakes, room spinning, bad decisions buffering, squints at the sink.

“That feels… legally significant.”

Price staggers in from the balcony, sunglasses on inside, holding a half-empty bottle like it betrayed him personally. “Morning, gentlemen.”

No one responds.

Gaz gestures to the sink.

Price looks.

There is a silence.

He exhales slowly. “Okay. Nobody panic.”