Lance stirred from his nap, eyes squinting against the afternoon light streaming in through the blinds. Before he could fully sit up, something cold and wet slapped against his face.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Kenji grinned, standing at the foot of the bed. "We leaving or are you planning to hibernate here?"
Lance peeled the damp face towel off and groaned. "Give me fifteen minutes."
######
As they hit the highway, the city skyline slowly gave way to open roads, and the constant hum of traffic thinned into silence. Lance leaned his head back against the seat, watching the scenery blur past—concrete turning to countryside, glass towers to rusted gas stations and fading billboards.
Somewhere around the third hour, Kenji cranked the volume on a shared playlist—one they'd made back in high school when late-night drives meant sneaking out and crashing by dawn.
Lance laughed when the first track kicked in.
"You still have this on here?"
"Hell yeah. This playlist's a masterpiece."
They didn't talk much after that. They didn't need to.
Lance's thoughts had drifted to his mother. To the tiny house. To the torn photo. He hadn't been home in weeks due to the grind as well as it being the final semester.
As the GTR curved down the hill into familiar roads, the sign came into view:
[ Welcome to City A. ]
######
Another 30 minutes later,
Kenji dropped Lance off at his place. "I'm late to meet my old man, so I won't go in. Tell your mum I say hi and that I miss her very much."
Lance nodded. "Say hi to your dad for me."
The house was quiet when Lance let himself in. The air smelled like ginger tea and something sweet—maybe her favorite peanut butter cookies.
He dropped his bag gently by the door, slipping his shoes off with care. The place hadn't changed. The same slightly chipped photo frames, the faded curtains she refused to replace, the little indoor plant he gave her years ago still somehow surviving near the window.
From the kitchen came the familiar soft hum of an old radio.
"...Don't make me come out there, young man. I heard the door creak."
Lance smiled.
"Sorry, Ma," he called out, stepping into the kitchen. "Didn't mean to sneak in like a thief."
She turned from the counter, wiping her hands with a towel. The same gentle eyes. The same tired warmth behind them. "If you were a thief, you'd have cleaned your room by now."
They both chuckled, and without thinking, Lance crossed the space and pulled her into a hug. Tight. Steady. The kind of hug you don't realize you need until you're in it.
She stiffened in surprise—just for a moment—then melted into the embrace. Her hand stroked the back of his head, like she used to when he was younger.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away. Just rested his chin on her shoulder.
"Getting there," he finally murmured.
She pulled back slightly and looked at him. "Did something happen?"
He shook his head. "No. Nothing bad. I just… missed home."
She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "You are such a baby."
They sat on the couch together in quiet comfort, the late afternoon sun casting long golden lines through the thin curtains. Lance glanced around the living room—still the same as always. Still home. But his eyes lingered on the pill organizer on the coffee table. It was neatly arranged: blue case, Monday through Sunday. A glass of half-drunk water sat beside it.
"Did you take your morning dose?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"I'm not a child, Lance," Janine replied with a tired smile. But this time, there was a flicker of pride in her voice too. She picked up the glass and took a sip, more for his peace of mind than her own. "And yes, I did. You can relax—I'm not skipping."
He gave a small nod, but his gaze didn't leave her. Her movements were slower than he remembered—careful, like someone still learning how to live without pain. Her skin was pale, her frame thinner, but there was color in her cheeks now. A spark. Not like before.
Janine noticed the look on his face and reached over, placing a hand gently on his knee. "I'm in remission, sweetheart. You don't have to look at me like I might break."
Lance's chest tightened at the words. She said it so simply, so matter-of-factly—but behind it was everything they'd been through.
She had been diagnosed not long after his high school graduation. Breast cancer. He still remembered how the world seemed to tilt the day she told him, how the buzzing in his ears drowned out every word except those two. He'd wanted to stay back. Postpone college. Take care of her.
But she wouldn't let him.
"I swear, if you don't go, I'll stop treatment," she had said back then, voice steel behind the smile. And he had known she meant it.
They were lucky. They had caught it early. She had the surgery. The doctors had said the prognosis was good. But the journey after that—radiation, chemo, endless appointments—had stretched into years. It had taken its toll.
Lance glanced at her now—still fighting, still standing. He recalled the woman who stood between him and Mr. T's men, desperately trying to protect her young son from the violent world.
It pained him that he couldn't tell her the truth of what he had been up to lately, but it made him resolve to train more and get better so that he could give her the comfortable life that she deserved.
She wouldn't need to work. She wouldn't need to worry. Not about bills. Not about him.
She had carried both for too long.
Now it was his turn.
######
An hour later, at the Zehnder Estate – Private Shooting Range
The sharp echo of a shot rang out across the long, empty stretch of the underground range, followed by the slow whir of the paper target retracting.
Kenji stepped onto the firing line, hands in his jacket pockets, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. The place was soundproofed, spotless, and as cold as the man waiting at the far end of the lane.
Roman Zehnder stood behind a reinforced glass booth, inspecting the cluster of bullet holes near the bullseye. Without turning around, he said flatly, "You're late."
Kenji gave a lazy shrug as he approached. "It's Sunday, old man. Some of us like to sleep in."
Roman pressed a fresh target button. The mechanism whirred again, resetting. "Some of us like to avoid bringing shame to our name."
Kenji rolled his eyes and pulled out the protective ear muffs from around his neck. "Let me guess. You called me back just to lecture me?"
Roman finally turned, placing the custom pistol on the table beside him with surgical precision. "I called you back because I received a call I shouldn't have. One that mentioned my son, a poker den, and six figures of debt."
Kenji leaned against the glass booth with a sigh. "Oh? Don't worry. It's fine."
He picked up the pistol from the bench without asking, and Roman let him. The weight was familiar in his hand. He turned to face the range, lifted the gun with a casual grace—and fired six rounds in quick succession.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!