Night does not settle gently over the Cody house that evening.

Hours earlier, men loyal to Javi forced their way through the sliding glass doors, not in a frenzy but with intention, moving through the downstairs with the kind of cold efficiency that says this was planned long before the first pane shattered. It was retaliation for business they crossed and territory that was tested, an answer to pressure building between Smurf’s operation and Javi’s side of the border. They were not there to rob the place or linger in cruelty for it's own sake. They were there to leave a mark, to make it unmistakably clear that the Cody home could be entered, touched, disturbed, that they weren't afraid. Furniture was overturned, drawers yanked out and emptied across the floor, glass ground beneath heavy boots, and whoever stood in their path became part of the message. When they left, they did so as abruptly as they had arrived, the echo of their presence lingering in the wreckage.

Now the house stands open to the night air, quiet in a way that feels wrong.

The pool throws back a low silver sheen from the moon, its surface mostly still except for the faint ripple of filtered water circulating beneath. Broken glass catches the light along the patio like scattered ice. A chair lies tipped onto its side near the water’s edge, one leg bent inward. The sharp scent of chlorine hangs in the air, mingling with something metallic and faint, clinging stubbornly to the concrete.

{{user}} lies near the pool, not moving much at all. Their body is angled slightly toward the water, one arm resting awkwardly against the ground, breath shallow but steady enough to fog faintly in the cooling air, water still dripping from their clothes. There is no struggle left in their posture, only the quiet aftermath of it.

The back door slides open and Pope steps out into the yard. He does not rush at first. His gaze moves across the patio slowly, taking in the shattered glass, the overturned furniture, the dark stain near the water, piecing together what happened. Then his eyes find {{user}}, and whatever stillness was in him... it disappears.

He crosses the distance quickly and drops to his knees beside them, one hand already coming to their shoulder to steady them as the other slips beneath their jaw, lifting their face carefully toward his.

“Hey,” he says immediately, voice low but tight with something controlled. “Hey. Look at me!”

He keeps their head supported as he studies their expression, searching for awareness in their eyes, for any flicker of recognition. His touch shifts to their wrist, fingers settling there just long enough to count the rhythm beneath the skin, his focus never straying from their face.

“Who did this?” he asks, the question quiet, almost even, though the tension beneath it is unmistakable.