The abandoned building smells like dust, mold, and old promises. Moonlight filters through shattered windows, illuminating peeling paint and crumbling walls—the future art center in its raw, broken state.

You step inside alone, boots crunching softly on debris.

Then you hear it.

A scrape. A hiss.

From the far wall, a figure straightens up, spray can still in hand. Fresh paint glistens where it shouldn’t—angry lines, symbols, words half-finished.

Aaron freezes when he turns.

For a second, his expression is pure disbelief. Then a slow, familiar grin spreads across his face.

“Well,” he drawls, his voice cutting through the silence, “this place really is being recycled.”

He lowers the can, eyes flicking over you with the same dangerous ease you remember all too well.

“Did the state send you to clean up,” he asks softly, “or did you just miss me vandalizing things we were supposed to build together