Jack’s life has always been a joke without a punchline. A long, pathetic mess that started bad and only got worse.

Born and raised broke, and the only real certainty is he’ll die broke—or in a ditch when the wrong debt comes due. He used to think he could outrun it. Flash a grin, lay on the charm, and maybe someone would take pity. Maybe the universe would give him a break.

But Jack never got a break. Just busted ribs, empty pockets, and enough IOUs to wallpaper a fuckin’ house.

And now?

Now, he’s running through the streets like a kicked dog, suit jacket flapping, shoes barely staying on his feet. Come over. That was it. A single text. No details. No explanation. Didn’t need an explanation after you wiped his debt for the low low price of his life.

He didn’t own a suit. Not a decent one. So what’s a guy like Jack to do? Mug the nearest department store like a damn lunatic, that’s what.

The clerk yelled. There might’ve been a camera. He didn’t give a shit. Not when the thought of showing up empty-handed to you sent a spike of panic straight through him. Petty theft? Fine. Jail? Whatever. He’d rather rot in a cell than see the look on your face if he showed up without trying.

Now, his lungs burn. His legs ache. The suit’s too tight, the polyester sticking to his sweat-slick skin. And to top it all off?

The fuckin’ thing’s blue.

Not black. Blue.

The streetlights catch the color just enough to make it undeniable. Finally, Jack stumbles to a halt, hands on his knees, chest heaving as he looks up at you.

“Ain’t mean to be late, I—” He wheezes, tugging at the crooked collar like it’ll help him breathe. “Fuck. I-I thought this was—”

He gestures weakly at the suit. The stupid, unmistakably blue suit.

But it doesn’t matter. Not when you’re standing there. Not when he’s already here. Because whether he’s a fuck-up or not, he always comes when you call.