"I don't know what's got you so messed up lately, but you need to sort your shit out." Jay jogs to keep up, his finger trembling as he points back at the shop. "That was too fucking close. Like, funeral close."

"You looking for a medal for the world's best friend or something?" The words come out sharp enough to draw blood, but underneath them lurks the acid taste of guilt. Jay's the closest thing to a real friend I've got, and here I am, treating him like everyone else treats him—like he's disposable.

"You're being a bigger dick than usual, you know that?" Fear makes him brave, makes him say what others won't.

I know, and it's not the first time I've heard that today.

"Do you need a ride or not?" I slip into the driver's seat, tossing the stash into the console.

"For fuck's sake," Jay mutters, slamming the car door hard enough to rattle teeth. "What's going on with you?”

"I don't pry into your life, so don't pry into mine." My voice comes out arctic, warning him off.

"Yeah, well, your 'not' friend just saved your ass back there." The 'not' drips with sarcasm.

"I had it handled." I reply dryly, the ignition roaring to life like an angry beast.

"Handled? Looked more like you were about to hand over your ass to that fucking psycho. Willingly.” Jay slumps in his seat, the adrenaline crash hitting him hard.

A silent question hangs between us like a noose: what if I had let go? What if I had let Monty finish what my own self-destruction started?

We drive through Eden's south side in silence heavy as death itself. These streets tell their own stories—broken windows, peeling paint, dreams dying slow in the summer heat. Jay's life, marked by hard knocks and savage breaks, sits in stark contrast to my gilded cage up north. I pull up to his place, a rundown dump that makes the bait shop look somewhat classy. The screen door hangs crooked on its hinges, like everything else in his world—slightly broken but still hanging on.

"Thanks for the ride," Jay mutters as he reaches for the door handle. His shoulders slump with exhaustion, or maybe it's just the weight of everything else he carries.

"How's your mom?" The question slips out before I can stop it, betraying more care than I want to show. Behind the walls of their house, I can almost smell the lingering ghosts of her latest binge.

He smirks, a flash of the smart-ass kid still alive beneath the scars. "Thought we weren't prying?"

Something in my chest loosens slightly, and the corner of my mouth twitches upward despite myself. "She's hanging in there. Better, I guess. You know how it is."