End things on a high note and head home for the night.

You’ve been faking drunk all night.

Slurring your words just enough. Swaying a little on the way to the bar. Turning down that last shot with exaggerated drama. Jeremy doesn’t notice. He’s too far gone, buzzing like a warm lightbulb.

You can’t get drunk, not really. But you like the atmosphere. Booze makes people honest. More themselves. Raw and visible. For a few hours, you get to have a glimpse of who they really are. Makes it easier to decide who you want around you.

You walk Jeremy home, letting him ramble. The guy lights up the sidewalk with his stories, half-staggering, half-dancing, happy as hell to be walking home with the birthday boy.

You take your usual shortcut through the parking garage. It smells like hot piss and oil leaks, but it shaves ten minutes off the walk, and Jeremy’s shoelaces are untied again. You want to get him home before he tries to pee on something.

Then you hear it. Footsteps.

Fast ones. Echoing. Too many and too close.

Jeremy doesn’t catch it, but you do. You glance back.

Of course. Birthday Bitch. And he brought friends.

“Shit,” you mutter.

Jeremy turns, blinking like he’s still trying to load the scene.

“Oh come on,” he groans. “Really? This guy?”

Birthday Bitch is grinning. Blood in his eye, limp in his step. “Told you to come outside. Took you long enough.”

You glance around. “Garage is empty.”

“No one’s coming,” Jeremy confirms, eyeing the dark booth.

You could outrun them easily. Jeremy? Not so much.

“Fine,” you sigh. “We do it here.”

You grab his elbow and veer for the emergency stairwell. Narrow. One entrance. Can’t get surrounded. They follow.

One guy breaks ahead. Eager, dumb, loud.

Jeremy handles it. Quick jab. One-two. Guy folds like a lawn chair.

One down.

You square up to the next two.

The first throws a haymaker. Wide, slow, practically narrated in real time. He punches like his friend. You sidestep, redirect, and let him slam into a cement support like a Saturday morning cartoon. Goes down like him too.

Two.

The next guy dives low, aiming for your legs. You bring up a knee, catch him square in the collarbone. He squeaks like a broken accordion, rolls down the stairs, and decides he's had enough.

Three.

Click.

Gun.

You react without thinking. Shove Jeremy around the corner. Get between him and the barrel.

Pop.

The sharp crack echoes in the parking garage. It hits center mass. Feels like a brick to the ribs, knocking the wind out of you, but nothing gets through.

The guy sees you standing, unbleeding, and immediately rethinks his entire life. He makes a break for it. The rest follow. Limping. Cussing. One guy’s trying to hold his shoe and his dignity at the same time and fails miserably at both as he scampers away.

Jeremy is shouting behind you. “RYAN?! Are you... holy shit, did you get hit?!”

You wave it off. “Nah. Missed. Mile wide.”

“You were two feet away!”

“He was piss drunk. Got lucky.”

He’s already lifting your shirt, checking for blood. You push him away.

“I'm fine. If you wanna play with my nipples like that, at least buy me dinner first."

Jeremy stares at you. Then groans. “You are the stupidest, luckiest son of a bitch I know.”

"Stupid gets me into trouble and lucky gets me out. It’s a system.”

He’s still rattled. You walk the rest of the way in silence, Eyes on every shadow.

“I’ll call the garage in the morning,” you say. “See if they’ve got footage.”

Jeremy mumbles. “You’re a goddamn PI, you better catch those fuckers.”

You shrug. “Yeah, I'm getting chewed out though. Boss is not gonna be happy I got into dumb shit.”

He asks if you want to crash at his place. You decline. You’re wired now. Plus, the last thing you need is him stumbling over your shirt that now has a very obvious bullet hole in it.

You eventually make it home just as it starts to rain. You were so deep in thought you didn't even notice until you were at your front door.

You sigh in relief as you peel your shirt off in the bathroom and wince as you inspect the damage. The bruises are already blooming. Purple and pissed, but they didn't break skin. The 9mm just left a few welts and a reminder.

You’ve lived through worse. But the close calls still get you. Not the bullets. Jeremy’s voice cracking, and the way he looked at you. Like maybe he just saw something he wasn’t supposed to.

Those are dangerous thoughts. You like Jeremy, don't go there.

You lean on the sink, staring into the mirror, then open the medicine cabinet. Dab some topical on the bruises like it’s just another sparring match gone a little sideways.

Then you hear it.

Soft. But too many branches moving at once. Too big to be a raccoon trying to get out of the weather.

Given how tonight went so far, you're not willing to leave things to chance. No more surprises.

You kill the light and check the cams hidden in your saferoom. You see the lone figure crouched in the shrubbery lining the house. Small, and you don't see any weapons. You go out to check.

She’s curled up between the wall and the shrub like she’s trying to will herself invisible. She's definitely not dressed for the weather. Eyes red. Face hollow from too many nights outside. When she sees you, she flinches. Like she thinks you might kick her just for existing.

"Please," she whispers. "Please... No mean nothing bad. Only sleep here."

You let out the breath you've been holding.

You’ve seen that look before. You used to wear it.

She’s probably early thirties. South American, by the accent. Just another person this country chewed up and spat out.

“What’s your name?” you ask, quieter now.

She hesitates.

“Mariana.”