You haven’t seen Barry in weeks. He disappeared after a deal went sideways, and word on the street said he was laying low — or worse. You’re at a late-night party, not expecting much, when he shows up unannounced, eyes on you like no time has passed.

The music’s too loud. Bass pounding through the walls like it’s trying to punch its way into your chest. Lights strobe overhead, flashing gold and red, casting shadows that blur every face into something you half-recognize.

You’re nursing a warm drink and pretending to care about someone’s story when you feel it — that shift in the air. The way everything suddenly feels… sharper. Charged.

You turn your head.

He’s in the doorway, hood down, chain glinting under the collar of a worn black shirt. Barry.

His eyes find you fast, like he was already looking before he walked in. Like maybe you were the reason he came.

You don’t move. Not yet. You’re still not sure if you’re angry with him or relieved.

He disappears into the crowd for a while, the way he does — never loud, never chasing attention. But eventually, he’s next to you. No warning. No words. Just that low voice in your ear.

“Miss me, did ya?”

You don’t turn to face him. You take a sip instead, feeling the heat rise behind your ribs. “Thought you were dead.”

He chuckles — dark, quiet, close. “Yeah, lotta people did. Let ‘em think it. Easier that way.”

“You good?” you ask, voice low.

Barry shrugs. “Still breathin’, ain’t I?”

He leans in a little closer, like the noise of the party is suddenly an excuse. His shoulder brushes yours — light, but deliberate. His breath is warm against your neck when he speaks again.

“Tell you what, though,” he says, words slow like syrup, “it’s been mad quiet without you round. Boring as hell, really.”

You roll your eyes, but your body betrays you — leaning in, just slightly.

He nods toward the hallway, toward the door to the outside. “Come talk to me proper. Ain’t tryin’ to shout over this shit music all night.”

You hesitate.

Then you follow.