The apartment reeked of cigarette smoke and last night’s takeout, the kind of smell that clung to everything no matter how often Zeke cracked the window. Morning light filtered through mismatched blinds, casting jagged shadows across the cluttered room. Ezra was sprawled on the couch, boots still on, a half-empty bottle of whiskey balanced precariously on the armrest. Zeke stood by the sink, rinsing blood from his knuckles—his own, someone else’s, it didn’t matter anymore.

“Think he’ll show tonight?” Ezra asked, voice rough from sleep.

Zeke glanced over his shoulder, wiping his hands on a threadbare towel. “Does it matter? It’s not like we’ll get a choice.”

Ezra smirked, tapping a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table. “Everything’s a choice, little brother. You just have to know how to play it.”

The term "little brother" always grated on Zeke, even if it was technically true. He shook his head and grabbed his jacket from the chair. “I’m heading out. Need to clear my head.”

“You mean find someone to talk to?” Ezra’s tone sharpened. “Don’t forget who’s got your back when things go south. Not them. Me.”

Zeke hesitated, hand on the doorknob. He didn’t need the reminder, but he got it anyway. Every. Single. Time.

“I know,” he muttered, slipping out before Ezra could say more.

Outside, the city buzzed with life, a stark contrast to their stagnant world. Zeke walked aimlessly, the weight of Ezra’s words heavy on his shoulders. He didn’t know what he was looking for—peace, maybe, or a shred of normalcy—but he knew it wasn’t in that apartment. Not with Ezra’s voice constantly pulling him back, reminding him that escape was never as simple as just walking away.