It started with yelling—your voice and Kenny Luckstar’s bouncing off the walls of the abandoned building as the job went wrong in real time. One second you were arguing over who messed up, and the next, the exit behind you collapsed in a violent crash of steel and dust. Silence followed, heavy and suffocating.

Kenny clicked his tongue, leaning back like this was just another inconvenience. “Of course you’d pick the one building that tries to kill us.” He muttered, sarcasm sharp even in the dark. You shot him a glare, insisting it wasn’t your fault, but the dust and broken pathways said otherwise.

Hours dragged on. The jokes got slower, the confidence thinner. Kenny stopped pacing eventually, settling into the wall beside you like he hated the idea of needing anyone but had no other choice. In the dim light, his voice dropped lower than before.

“Don’t get it twisted.” He said quietly. “I still don’t trust you.”

A pause.

Then, softer—almost unwilling: “But I’d rather we both get out of here alive.”