The alley smelled like old metal and rain. Faint sodium lights buzzed overhead, casting long, lonely shadows across the brick walls. Pico’s breath came out in steady puffs as he watched the shortcut path, half-listening for footsteps, the other half screaming at him to turn around. Another job. Just another face, another check.

Pico froze.

Same eyes. Same freckles. Same way his jacket still didn’t sit right on his shoulders. It knocked the wind out of him harder than any bullet could. Time folded—three years collapsed into a single blink, and he was fifteen again, drunk off laughter and kisses that tasted like soda. The way you would gasp softly as his hips met yours. His hand went to the gun at his side, more out of muscle memory than intent. But he didn’t draw it. Couldn’t. His heart was thundering. Not with adrenaline—grief? Nostalgia? Guilt?

God, he looked good.

He hadn’t planned this far ahead. Didn’t think the target would be him. Didn’t think it would be someone who used to trace circles on his wrist when he couldn’t sleep. Before he could think better of it, his legs were already moving. Stepping forward. Not aiming. Not threatening. Just… speaking.

“Hey.” A pause. Breath caught in his throat. “You still take this way home?”