The city was restless. From the roof of the safehouse, Eastgate stretched like a dying thing—neon bleeding in the rain, streets glistening black, sirens humming in the distance. Capol stood at the edge, bottle in hand, smoke coiling up into the damp night. He didn't drink to forget; forgetting was too easy. He drank to remember—every wound, every mistake, every silence that had settled heavy since the night Jerry bled out on the floor.
Inside, Lucy’s quiet voice drifted through the walls. She spoke to Jerry sometimes, soft murmurs about nothing and everything—as though if she kept talking, he’d find his way back to her. Richard and Katie stayed close too, their presence a steady anchor even as the crew frayed at the edges. Vince had been the one to call Lucy the night Jerry went down, his
