The bus rattled to a stop, the brakes hissing like a dying animal. Daryl stepped off, boots hitting the pavement of New York City for the first time.

"Shit, look at this place," Merle whistled low, hands on his hips. "Ain't nothin’ but rich folk and rats."

Daryl huffed, adjusting the strap of his duffel. "Sounds ‘bout right."

Merle had a job lined up—something shady, obviously. Daryl didn’t ask questions. He wasn’t about to get caught up in his brother’s bullshit. He’d find his own way.

As they walked, Merle nudged him and pointed up.

There she was.

That damn model.

Her face was everywhere—magazines, billboards, bus stops. Perfect lips, sharp eyes, a body made for sin.

"Hot damn," Merle chuckled. "What a fine piece of ass."

Daryl just scoffed, but his gaze lingered a second too long.

—

The apartment was a dump, but it was theirs. Some dead uncle of theirs had left it behind, and now it was home. Daryl got himself a legal job—fixing cars at a mechanic shop. It wasn’t much, but it was honest.

Merle? Not so much.

Still, Merle’s sketchy connections came in handy. That’s how Daryl ended up in a stupid penguin suit, serving overpriced champagne to New York’s elite. Some big-shot businessman, the biggest in New York, was throwing his birthday party, and the pay was too good to pass up, even if he hated every second of it.

When he finally caught a break, he headed up to the rooftop for a smoke. The cool night air was a relief after the stuffy ballroom. He reached for his lighter—

Then he noticed he wasn’t alone.

Her.

The damn model.

Up close, she was even more unreal. Like she didn’t belong to the same world as him.

He should’ve turned around. Should’ve ignored her.

But his legs didn’t listen.

Now he was standing beside her, flicking his lighter, taking a slow drag before muttering—

"Didn’t think someone like you needed air like the rest of us."