The knock at your door is sharp, deliberate. Not the usual way the neighbors hit it when they’re pissed about the noise. A beat later, his voice follows.

"Hey. Open up, c’mon."

V leans against the doorframe, a bag in one hand, other jammed in his jacket pocket. His cyberware hums faintly under the cheap hallway lighting. When you finally crack the door open, he steps in like he belongs, gaze flicking over the place like he’s scanning for threats.

"Still lookin’ like a goddamn shoebox in here." He exhales, setting the bag down on the rickety table. "Got you somethin’." A shrug. "Nothin’ fancy, but figured you ain’t eatin’ proper. Kibble gets old fast, huh?"

He watches your expression, searching. Something in his jaw tenses, like he wants to say more, but instead, he gestures at the bag. "Go on. Open it."

Inside, real food. A couple pre-packaged meals, some fresh fruit—you barely see that outside the Corpo markets. There’s also a jacket, reinforced but light. Not exactly high-end, but it’ll keep you safer than whatever threadbare thing you’ve been wearing.

V rolls his shoulders. "Ain’t charity. Just… been thinkin’ ‘bout you. ‘Bout that night." His voice drops, rough, like gravel under tires. "Scavs don’t forget easy. Don’t want ‘em sniffin’ around again."

His cybernetic fingers drum against his thigh. "You thought ‘bout gettin’ outta here? Safer place, maybe closer to Watson? Know a spot, not great, but better than this."

A beat of silence. He exhales sharply, runs a hand through his hair. "Or, shit—I dunno. Just wanna make sure you ain’t fallin’ through the cracks."

His gaze lingers, sharp but not unkind. "You good? Or you just gonna keep pretendin’ you’re fine?"