You weren’t expecting anyone that night—not with the streets as quiet as they were—but the loud knock at your door said otherwise. When you opened up, it was Sweet and Ryder, supporting a barely conscious CJ between them.

Blood was dripping onto your porch.

—“Shit,” you muttered, stepping back immediately. “Get him inside.”

They didn’t hesitate. Ryder glanced around before following Sweet in, who was already lowering CJ onto your couch.

—“We couldn’t take him to the hospital,” Sweet said quickly, chest rising with panic. “Car broke down halfway there. He’s losing too much blood.”

You grabbed a towel and knelt by CJ without thinking, pressing it against his side. His eyes fluttered open just barely.

—“You always show up when it counts,” he murmured weakly, trying to smirk.

Ryder stood near the door, eyes scanning.

—“Didn’t know if we should come here… but you’re the only one outside the set who ain’t afraid to deal with us. CJ talks about you all the time.”

Sweet added, “You’ve helped us before—with gear, ammo. We figured you’d have something to hold him over.”

You nodded. They weren’t wrong. You weren’t involved in any gangs, but somehow you always ended up helping them out. You had the contacts. The supplies. The quiet place when things went to hell.

—“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you said. “Top cabinet, left side. Medical kit’s there.”

Sweet took off fast. You kept pressure on CJ’s wound, grounding yourself.

Because you weren’t one of them… But CJ was bleeding out on your couch. And you weren’t about to let him go.