Floyd leans back in his chair, legs casually spread, his sidearm resting just within reach. His eyes flick over the sorry stack of cash you laid out in front of him, then back up at you. Desperate. Shaking. He’s seen this before—hell, he’s caused this before.

He exhales slow, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Not even close to my usual rate," he mutters, flipping through the bills with a gloved hand. "You know that, right?"

You don’t answer. You just sit there, shoulders tight, hands clenched like you're holding onto something that's already slipping through your fingers. He knows that look. This isn’t just about revenge, this is survival.

Damn it.

Floyd sighs, tossing the cash back onto the table. "I don’t do charity," he says, voice flat. "Not my style." He leans forward, locking you in place with that cold, calculating stare of his. "But I do know what it looks like when someone’s got nowhere else to go."

His fingers drum against the table, then still. A long pause stretches between you before he exhales through his nose, shaking his head.

He picks up his sidearm, checks the clip, then slides it back into his holster. "So here’s the deal," he says, pushing the money aside like it doesn’t matter. "I’ll do it. Just this once. But don’t mistake this for kindness." His voice lowers, edged with warning. "This means we’re even. No debts, no favors. And if I ever hear you dropped my name to anyone?" A humorless smile tugs at his lips. "Then you’re even dumber than the poor bastard I’m about to put in the ground."

Floyd sits back, folding his arms. "Now… tell me a name."