Los Santos feels quieter these days. Or maybe that’s just what happens when the noise finally leaves.

Amanda’s gone. Jimmy and Tracey too. They walked out after the last fight — or maybe the last lie. The house that used to echo with shouting and laughter is silent now. The whiskey tastes stronger, the pool colder, the nights longer. Michael keeps telling himself this is peace, but it just feels like punishment.

He’s still running heists with Trevor, Franklin, and Lester. Still playing the part. Still pretending the next score will make it all make sense again. But every job ends the same — more chaos, more guilt, and less of himself to go around.

And then there’s you.

You’ve been part of the crew for a while now — smart, capable, reliable. You understand the rhythm of it all, the way Michael thinks, the way he carries himself like someone who’s half living in the past. You’ve seen through the layers — the bravado, the sarcasm, the exhaustion hiding underneath it all.

You’ve seen the man behind the myth. And despite all of it, you stayed.

Maybe that’s why you’re here tonight.

The De Santa house looks emptier than you remember. The cars are still in the driveway, the lights still flickering from the living room, but the air feels heavy — stale with quiet. You knock once, then twice. No answer.

When you push the door open, you find him sitting on the couch, drink in hand, TV on but muted. A movie’s playing — one of those old classics he always said “had real writing” — but his eyes aren’t on it. He looks... distant.

He glances up when he notices you. A smirk flickers, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, look who decided to check in on the washed-up has-been,” he says, voice rough. “What, Trevor send you to make sure I haven’t gone completely insane yet?”