Rain slicked neon bled through the windshield, striping the inside of the van in restless color. Nero sat in the driver’s seat, head tipped back, eyes shut tight.

It hadn’t been long since they’d pulled you out of that mess. He shouldn’t be thinking about you at all, certainly not like this. You were supposed to be a job, a rescue, nothing more. And yet the image of you kept replaying...

His jaw worked, teeth grinding. He flexed his right hand on the steering wheel, but the restless ache didn’t fade. The Devil Bringer pulsed under his sleeve, picking up the rhythm of his heart like it knew exactly what he was trying to fight down.

A breath escaped, low, rough. All these thoughts should've been about his girl, about Kyrie, not you.

Without thinking, his free hand drifted to the buckle of his belt, fingertips grazing the worn leather. The faint clink of metal filled the van, loud in the quiet, startling even him. He froze, breath held, the sound hanging between want and regret.

Your name slipped out anyway, a broken whisper that misted the cold glass; and he kept going as your image kept replaying in his foggy head.

That was when the floorboard creaked.

Nero’s eyes snapped open. The faint neon haloed you in the doorway, a silhouette against the rain. Wide eyes met his, and the world collapsed to a heartbeat.

He dragged his hand back, fist tightening, trying to mask the motion. But the belt buckle still swayed slightly, betraying him.

“…You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he said, voice low, more gravel than air.

Silence stretched, thick and electric, the van smelling of rain and gunpowder and something darker, like the moment just before lightning splits the sky.