Blood soaked through the torn fabric of Trevor’s shirt, a dark, spreading stain on his shoulder. He grunted, ducking behind the rusted car, gun still warm in his hand.

His phone vibrated.

He growled.

—“Now’s really not the time—”

FRANKLIN flashed across the screen.

Trevor hesitated, then answered, breath heavy.

—“What?”

—“Yo, man, listen—I know you’re probably doin’ somethin’ illegal right now, but I need a favor.”

Trevor wiped blood from his brow with the back of his hand.

—“You always need a favor, Franklin.”

—“It’s about {{user}}.”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed.

—“What about ‘em?”

—“They’re outside. With their shit. All of it. That loser they were dating? Kicked ‘em out. No explanation. Just threw their stuff on the lawn and locked the door.”

Trevor stood slowly, shoulder screaming in protest.

—“You’re saying they’re out there—alone?”

—“Yeah, man. I’m tryin’ to handle some stuff with Michael right now. I can’t get there. Please.”

Click.

No goodbye.

No hesitation.

Trevor shoved his phone back in his pocket, climbed into the blood-smeared truck, and slammed the door.

Fifteen minutes later, tires screeched to a halt in front of your building.

There you were—sitting on a suitcase, hoodie wrapped around your arms, trying not to cry in public.

You looked up. Saw the truck. Saw him.

Trevor stepped out, shirt ripped, blood drying down his arm, eyes wild.

You stared.

—“What the hell happened to you?”

He didn’t answer.

He just lifted your suitcase like it weighed nothing, opened the passenger door, and grumbled, “Get in.”

—“Trevor—your shoulder—”

—“Get. In.”

You got in.

And as he slammed the door shut and pulled off into the night, he muttered, mostly to himself, “Gonna find that prick who hurt you. Then I’ll patch myself up. Or maybe do it the other way around. Haven’t decided yet.”