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My fingers press against the cool glass, leaving smudged prints that mark my presence in this house. Thor's eyes find mine through the window, and for a moment, everything between us hangs suspended. He raises his hand in a brief wavebefore sliding into the passenger seat and backing out of the driveway.

“He'll be right back,” V says, appearing beside me like a ghost. “Thirty minutes, tops. Then we're gone for good.”

I don't respond. What is there to say? A man died in the basement, and now they're disposing of his body like yesterday's trash.

I turn from the window, wrapping my arms around myself.

“You need to sit before you fall down,” V says, gesturing to the couch. “You look like you're about to shatter into a million pieces.”

I don't argue. My legs feel disconnected from the rest of my body as I sink onto the cushions.

“Want something to drink?” V asks, already heading to the kitchen. “Water? Coffee? Something stronger?”

“Just water,” I manage. My throat feels like sandpaper.

He returns with a glass and sits beside me, leaving enough space that I don't feel crowded. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken horrors.

“So...” V clears his throat. “You play any video games?”

I blink at him. The question feels so disconnected from our current reality that I almost laugh. “What?”

“Video games.” He shifts, suddenly awkward. “I've got a Switch in my bag. Mario Kart? Smash Bros? Anything to distract from the whole...” he waves his hand vaguely, “corpse situation.”

This time I do laugh, the sound sharp and borderline hysterical. “Are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious.” He winces. “Poor choice of words. But yeah, distraction is good. Keeps you from spiraling.” He pulls a small gaming console from his backpack. “I never leave home without it.”

“You carry a Nintendo Switch with you to take care of motorcycle club business?” I stare at him, trying to reconcilethis man—who hours ago was torturing someone in a basement—with the guy now offering me video games like we're at a sleepover.

“Never know when you'll need entertainment.” V shrugs, setting up the console on the coffee table. “Besides, Thor's a moody bastard on road trips.”

I take a sip of water, watching V's fingers move with practiced efficiency. There's dried blood under his nails. The same hands that helped kill a man are now connecting colorful controllers.

“How do you do it?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

V pauses, glancing up. “Do what? Beat Rainbow Road? Years of practice.”

“Switch between...this,” I gesture at the game, “and what happened downstairs. How do you compartmentalize like that?”

His playful expression fades, replaced by something harder, “Same way you're sitting here having a conversation instead of screaming in a corner. Survival.”

I flinch at the brutal honesty.

“Sorry,” he says, softening. “That came out harsher than I meant it.”

V sets down the controller. “Look, I know how this looks,” he says, leaning back into the couch. “One minute I'm helping take apart a man in the basement, the next I'm setting up Mario Kart. But the truth is, the club—this life—it saved me.”

I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Saved you?”

“Life hasn’t always been sunshine and rainbows for me, but the club gave me a purpose. A way to use my talent for good. A purpose.”

“Purpose in violence?”

“Purpose in brotherhood. That's how I met my wife.”

“You're married?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

“Five years, and two kids later. She’s a therapist, ironic, I know, and my club president’s sister.”