While unconscious, he dreamed he was back at that Chinese restaurant table.
Red lanterns swayed, the mapo tofu was still bubbling. The six of them were gathered around the table, laughing, bickering, clinking glasses. In the background, an old Cantonese song played, the lyrics forever out of reach.
Then, one by one, the faces started getting crossed out from the photo.
Driver's seat was empty. String's chopsticks fell to the table and never moved again. Matriarch and Miami's chairs were slowly pulled away, leaving only Vulture, still sitting there, sipping plain water, blood streaked across his face.
"If you don't wake up soon," Vulture said, "they're gonna clear your spot at this table too."
Fox jerked awake, sunlight stabbing straight into his retinas.
The ceiling was bare concrete, cracked. The room was small—breathing machine, IV rack, an old heart monitor beeping quietly. Faded curtains, the smell of disinfectant and dust.
"You've been out for three days." Vulture's voice came from his left.
He was sitting on a plastic chair, right arm in a bandage, dried blood on his shoulder, holding out a bottle of water.
Fox didn't take it, just shifted his gaze with effort, voice rough as sandpaper: "Where are we?"
"Mexican border. Old clinic. Underground, buys us a few days." Vulture took a swig of water. "Owner owes me two lives."
Fox closed his eyes, felt a weight in his chest. He tried to move his hand, only to realize it was strapped to the bed; his ribs throbbed like they'd been hammered, every breath gritty.
"You broke two ribs. Took a piece of shrapnel by your shoulder blade. Any closer and you'd be with String right now." Vulture was matter-of-fact. "I dug it out—call it a souvenir." He set a twisted, mangled piece of metal on Fox's bedside table.
Fox didn't reply. He stared at the cracked ceiling, watching the fissure snake from left to corner. The pain in his chest felt deeper than any wound.
He thought of Miami and Matriarch in prison—not knowing if they were being interrogated or transferred.
He remembered Driver's last words: "Break his leg and drag him back."
He remembered String falling, her fingers still on the keyboard, that silent "Sorry" like a gunshot that made no sound.
Now it was just him and Vulture left.
And one of them couldn't move.
"Is it…" he started, voice cracked, "Did I screw this up?"
Vulture looked at him but said nothing.
"The six of us…" Fox stared at the IV drip. "I always thought if I planned well enough, we couldn't lose."
"You planned plenty well," Vulture said flatly. "People just die too fast."
Fox gave a short, bitter laugh, blood in his mouth. "That sounds like you're blaming me."
"I'm telling you, we didn't end up here because of you." Vulture leaned back, gaze on Fox. "You're not a god. You're just the one who always gets up when everyone else is down."
He paused, voice softer:
"But this time, you almost didn't get up."
Fox shut his eyes, like he needed every ounce of strength to press down all those memories—sand, explosions, blood, keyboards, fire, the scream of static.
This was the sharpest, and most disastrous, "plan" of his life.
This time, it wasn't the enemy that took him down. It was reality.
The room went silent.
Vulture got up, tossed the empty water bottle in the trash. "Think it through. When you can stand, we've got work to do."
He walked out. For a moment, sunlight spilled in—then the door closed.
Fox lay on the bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling, unmoving.
Like a wounded animal—knowing it was still alive, but no longer sure if it could kill again.
Outside, it started to rain.
Mexican rain wasn't the cathartic kind you got up north. It was thick, heavy, seeping through the air right into your bones. The clinic's walls leaked, concrete battered soft as old sponge, sandbags piled at the door, still no match for the wind that crept in.
Vulture came back with a busted umbrella and two paper bags, grease spots already soaking through, whatever heat had long since left the burgers inside.
He opened the door—and immediately smelled blood.
"Fox?" His voice wasn't loud, but there was weight to it.
He dropped the bags on the table and turned.
Fox was collapsed at the door, face down, blood running from the corner of his mouth onto the tiles, one hand braced, the other groping blindly for the water bottle by the door.
Vulture rushed over, hauling him up—Fox's stitches still in, bandages on his shoulder soaked through with blood.
"Trying to get yourself killed?" Vulture barked, tossing him back on the bed and pulling the blanket over him.
Fox kept his eyes closed, words barely a whisper: "Didn't die… shame, really."
He didn't sound sarcastic, just honest.
Vulture sat in the plastic chair, silent. He knew Fox was about to start telling the truth.
The room was so quiet you could hear the buzz of the ventilator.
After a while, Fox spoke:
"You remember the first dinner? Six of us, just quit the company, landed our first 'gray zone' job. Chinese place. Driver ordered potstickers. String couldn't do spicy, but they got the order wrong, poor kid's nose running from the heat, Driver laughing and streaming Chow Yun-fat movies for her on his phone, Miami stealing Matriarch's tea…"
Vulture nodded. "She smacked his hand with her chopsticks."
Fox smiled a little. "Yeah. Then Miami told me we'd probably split up one day, because he couldn't stand Matriarch."
"I remember," Vulture said. "They made up later. Matriarch even cried."
"Funny how it all turned out okay in the end," Fox said quietly. "But back then, I really thought—everybody had to look out for themselves. Us sticking together was just luck, splitting up was the rule. After that meal, I started prepping backup IDs, overseas accounts, exit plans."
"While you were doing all that, we were fighting over Matriarch's beef with peppercorns," Vulture said.
Fox let out a thin, bitter laugh. "Yeah. I always thought I was the clear-headed one… but now I get it—I wasn't clear-headed. I was a coward."
"Coward?" Vulture looked at him.
"Everyone else really wanted to live," Fox said, slowly. "But me? I was always planning for how to bail out if things went bad, how to survive, how to dodge the blame… And now you're all dead, or hurt, or locked up. And I'm still here, breathing, like a fucking corpse. Tell me, what right do I have to still be alive?"
That landed like a knife on the table.
Vulture didn't answer right away.
He just gently took Fox's hand and wrapped it tighter in the bandage, slow and steady, like defusing a bomb.
"You can die," he said suddenly. "If you really think you ought to, nobody's stopping you."
Fox didn't move.
"Fuck you, man, how are you this selfish? Driver got blown up scouting for us, String died covering you, the other two are rotting in prison, you know damn well how bad it got, and I nearly got killed dragging your ass out of that mess! And now you want to just die?"
Vulture shoved the burger bag onto the nightstand. "Eat or don't. Fuck you."
He walked to the door, paused, voice low but steady.
"Fox will not die."
"But,he needs a reason to live."
The door shut.
Fox leaned back against the headboard, hand slowly moving till it found the paper bag, gripping it like he had to hold onto something real.
He looked down at the bandage on his hand. His chest still hurt, wounds still burned, but he suddenly realized—
He was still breathing.