Everyone froze. Even Rocco's cigarette paused mid-burn like it didn't want the smoke anymore.
The half-conscious man.
He was still on my couch-turned-operating-table, pale, stitched up, and probably high as hell on whatever Rocco pumped into him. But that voice? That rasp? Yeah, that was a voice used to being obeyed. A voice that sounded like it belonged to a man who had ordered gunfire before coffee.
My eyes met his for a split second.
He looked… wrecked. Bruised. Bleeding. Half-alive. But conscious. Barely. And judging by the wild glint in his silver colored eyes, absolutely done with the clown circus happening in my living room.
I didn't say anything.
I just sat on the floor like a cat that had wandered into an alien drug ring and was now regretting everything.
The chaos didn't pick up again.
Instead, a few hours passed in this weird, oddly efficient kind of quiet.
I'd changed into fresh clothes somewhere in the middle of it. Stared into my bathroom mirror for a solid twenty minutes trying to reassemble the shredded jigsaw puzzle of my dignity.
Came out to find Rocco elbows-deep in his "stabilization" process, which, I guess, was what doctors did post-surgery. Checking vitals. Administering fluids. Monitoring Kieran's breathing. Muttering things like "His BP's low. Push another 500ml," while flipping a bloody notebook that looked suspiciously like it had once been a menu.
Meanwhile, Kyle had been sent to the store after I emotionally blackmailed him with an Oscar-worthy speech about "you broke into my apartment, you can at least replace my cereal and maybe buy me ice cream and actual bread, you monsters."
To my surprise… he actually went.
And when he returned?
He brought four different cereals. Along with other necessary things like my damn toilet paper too.
Rocco and I made eye contact as Kyle dumped the bags on the floor and grumbled something about coupons.
I nodded slowly.
"Proud of him," Rocco said solemnly.
And then, finally… somehow… we ended up at my tiny coffee table again.
The same table that had hosted a bullet extraction and what I'm pretty sure was a human kidney on a napkin just hours ago.
Now? It hosted three cups of ramen.
Mine had extra seasoning because why not?
We didn't talk much. Rocco was still moving between bites and Kieran, checking his temperature, adjusting tubes, making notes. Kyle was slumped across from me with a forehead vein that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else but also that he was oddly comfortable being annoyed here.
I took a bite of my noodles.
Salt.
Warmth.
Sanity? Still MIA.
But for a second, it felt like… peace.
Which was precisely why my brain picked that moment to give out on me.
One blink, I was upright.
The next?
My face was in my arms on the table, dead asleep like a laptop that overheated.
Rocco's voice drifted faintly through my dreams: "Let her rest. She deserves at least twenty minutes of blissful unconsciousness before we tell her the cops might be tracking us."
What?
"Rocco."
"Kidding," he said. "Sort of."
And then… blackness.
•°•°•°•°
I woke up with my cheek glued to the wooden table, the sticky scent of soy sauce clinging to my skin like a bad decision. My neck ached, my back was yelling, and I could still taste cup ramen in my mouth. For one glorious second, I thought I'd dreamed it all, the gun, the blood, the strange men in my apartment.
And then I smelled it.
Burning.
My eyes flew open just in time to see a sad, wheezing puff of smoke curl its way out of the kitchen.
No. No no no—not the rice cooker.
I shot up, heart hammering, and stumbled across the apartment, nearly tripping over a suspiciously bloody rag. My feet smacked against the floor as I burst into the kitchen.
There he was.
Kyle.
Crouched in front of my rice cooker like a caveman discovering fire, aggressively jabbing it with a spoon and muttering to himself.
"What the hell are you doing?!" I shouted.
He barely looked up. "Your rice cooker's fake."
I blinked at him, my eye twitching. "Your brain is fake."
He frowned, like I'd offended him. "Then why's it smoking like it's in a bad breakup?"
I smacked the spoon out of his hand. "Step away from her. That rice cooker cost me half a paycheck and my dignity."
From the living room, a familiar voice called out, laughing, "Told you to leave it alone, man. I already ordered breakfast."
I turned. And of course, of course, there was Rocco. Legs crossed on my couch like he paid rent, one hand flicking through his phone.
"You did what?" I asked, incredulous.
"Breakfast burritos. And coffee." He flashed a charming little smile. "You're welcome, darling."
"You ordered food—on my account?" I stared at him, arms flailing slightly.
Rocco just shrugged, like we were old roommates. "Get used to it, sunshine. You've been adopted."
I groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. Full-on movie scene.
My eyes slid toward the couch where the injured man was still knocked out, stitched and drugged and somehow even more intimidating while unconscious.
And then it hit me.
I gasped.
"SHIT." Work.
I bolted for my room, nearly tripping over one of my throw pillows that definitely wasn't there last night. "I can't be late again—"
I slammed my bedroom door shut and leaned against it, heart racing.
Three grown men.
One bullet wound.
A rice cooker that may never recover.
But at least they restocked my fridge a little and toilet papers.
I slid down to the floor and stared at nothing.
What kind of cosmic joke was this?
And how long was I gonna survive it?
~~~
Ten days later, I finally had enough.