The air in Elizabeta's apartment was thick with gunpowder, cocaine, and the metallic tang of blood. The bodies of Manny and his cameraman were gone—dragged out by Niko.
Liz slumped onto the couch, her hands shaking as she poured herself a shot of tequila. She downed it in one go, then leaned forward, snorting a line of coke off the glass coffee table. Her movements were sharp, desperate.
Arthur watched from the armchair, his jaw tight. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the table and took a long pull, the burn doing little to dull the weight in his chest.
"Arthur," Liz said suddenly, her voice rough. "You know I love you, right? Like a brother."
He exhaled through his nose. "I know."
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You were always too good for this shit."
Arthur set the bottle down with a thud. "Liz. Your empire's crumbling. You need to run."
She shook her head, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I can't."
"You can," he growled, standing. He crouched in front of her, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You got me a home. A job. Hell, even friends. Now let me help you for once."
She stared at him, her dark eyes bloodshot but sharp. "And what? Just disappear? After everything I built?"
"It's already gone," Arthur said bluntly. "The cops are closing in. The dealers are turning. You got enough money stashed—take a boat, go to Jamaica, the Bahamas, somewhere. Start over."
For a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in her gaze—relief, maybe. The ghost of the woman she'd been before the drugs and the paranoia ate her alive.
Then she snorted another line, her shoulders squaring. "No. This is my life. I don't get a happy ending."
Arthur clenched his fists. "Liz—"
"Go, Arthur," she said softly, patting his shoulder. "You're free."
He stood there for a long moment, searching her face for any sign she'd change her mind. There wasn't one.
So he sighed, grabbed his hat, and turned toward the door.
"Goodbye, Liz."
He didn't look back.
——————
Arthur sat in the quiet of his apartment, the newspaper spread across his coffee table. The headline stared back at him in bold print:
"Bohan Drug Queenpin Elizabeta Torres Arrested in Major Sting Operation."
His jaw clenched as he read the details—how she and Marta had been caught in a raid, how the cops had been building their case for months. He exhaled slowly, setting the paper down.
For a moment, he just sat there, listening to the hum of the city outside, and let himself remember.
Not the shootouts, not the drug deals—but the other moments. The ones that felt almost normal.
Like the time Liz had dragged him to some hole-in-the-wall diner at 3 AM after a long night, insisting he try "real fucking pancakes, Arthur, not that cowboy shit you eat." He'd grumbled, but damn if they weren't good.
Or the nights when Mallorie would stop by Liz's place with a bottle of wine, and the three of them would end up on the couch, laughing at some ridiculous TV show Arthur still didn't fully understand. Liz would throw popcorn at him when he made sarcastic comments about the actors.
And Packie—always Packie, with his loud mouth and bigger laugh, slapping Arthur on the back after a poker game, calling him "the luckiest bastard in Liberty City" even when Arthur lost.
A year. That's all it had been. But in that year, Liz had given him something he hadn't realized he needed—a place. A purpose. Even if it was a crooked one.
Arthur stood, walking over to the window. Rain streaked down the glass.
He missed the wilderness. The open sky, the scent of pine and earth, the way the wind carried the sound of a distant coyote. Here, the only animals were scrawny alley cats, fat pigeons, and the occasional rat scurrying underfoot. No deer. No wild horses. Just concrete and noise.
But this was his life now. No use dwelling on what he couldn't change.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, squinting at the screen.
Packie: Got a big job. Dangerous. Come to Ma's crib. Dress smart.
Arthur smirked. Dangerous, but dress fancy? Only one thing came to mind.
A bank job.
He crossed to his closet, rifling through the sparse collection of clothes. Then his eyes landed on a dusty box tucked on the top shelf. He pulled it down, coughing as a cloud of dust escaped. Inside was a suit—black, tailored, crisp.
Liz had given it to him months ago, tossing it at him with a shrug. "Who knows when you'll need to look like a grown-ass man, Arthur?"
He hadn't worn it since.
Now, he shook it out, changing into the pants, the oxford shoes, the burgundy button-up, and finally the sleek black jacket. He adjusted the collar, staring at himself in the mirror.
Not his style. But damn if he didn't look sharp.
Liz would've approved.
He grabbed his keys, then hesitated. No way he was riding his bike in this. Instead, he called a cab.
When it arrived, he slid into the backseat, giving the driver the address.
"Drive fast," he said.
——————
Arthur tapped his fingers impatiently against the armrest as the cab crawled through Liberty City's rain-slicked streets. He'd told the driver to drive fast, but the man—a wiry guy with a thick mustache and a cautious grip on the wheel—seemed determined to treat every yellow light like a stop sign and every open lane like a leisurely suggestion.
At least he was smooth. The cab glided past slower cars with practiced ease, never jerking or swerving, just... overtaking. Like a damn stagecoach driver who knew his route by heart.
Arthur's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, flipping it open.
Marisol: You up for a movie night at my place?
His thumb hovered over the keys. He wanted to say yes. But after today—assuming this was the bank job he thought it was—he'd need to lay low for a few days. No sense dragging her into that mess.
Arthur: Busy next few days. After that, sure.
A moment later:
Marisol: Sounds good.
Simple. No fuss. No prying.
Arthur closed his eyes and sighed.
Damn that woman.
Back in his day, women wore dresses—long ones, proper ones. Not tight jeans and tank tops that left little to the imagination. Not that he was complaining. Marisol had looked good that night. Confident. Unapologetic. Like she knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.
He'd gotten used to the way women dressed here—some in clothes that would've scandalized folks back home, others in outfits that made him do a double-take. But Marisol? She didn't just wear clothes. She owned them.
And for some godforsaken reason, she was interested in him. A 37-year-old relic who still called cars "horseless carriages" under his breath and flinched at the sound of helicopters. A man stuck in the old ways, like a ghost haunting the wrong century.
Why?
The cab slowed to a stop outside Packie's ma's place. Arthur paid the driver, stepped out into the rain, and adjusted his suit jacket.
No time to dwell on it now.
But as he walked toward the door, he couldn't help one last thought:
Maybe some questions don't need answers.