The sun was just starting to set over Brockton, Massachusetts, painting the cracked sidewalks and chain-link fences in a dull orange glow. A dirt bike sat idling outside a small, run-down house on the edge of town. The front door hung open, swinging slightly in the breeze.

Inside, the house was quiet except for the faint creak of floorboards. Y/n stood in the hallway of the McCullough residence, having stopped by to check on Wayne after hearing about his father. The place had that hollow, empty feeling — like someone had already left.

He said it the way someone might say they were going to the store. Matter-of-fact. Final.