The chain-link fence rattles slightly in the wind, a soft, metallic clatter that fades into the distant hum of Santa Paloma. Oliverio doesn't move. He just stands there, staring down at the memorial like if he looks long enough, maybe something will change. Maybe the candles won't be burnt out, maybe the flowers won't be wilting, maybe Isaias's face won't be smiling up at him from behind the frame of a photo.

The image mocks him—the easy grin, the way his brother used to tilt his head when he was about to tease him, the faint scar at the corner of his eyebrow from that time they'd tried to climb the roof. All gone. Reduced to laminated paper and cheap plastic.

It doesn't feel real. Not in the way it should. The world hasn't stopped turning, people still laugh, the sun still rises. But inside, Oliverio feels like something inside him was hollowed out with a jagged knife and left to rot. He thought grief would be louder... an explosion, a fucking earthquake. But it's not. It's quiet, insidious. Like a phantom limb that still itches even though it's been cut off.

He kneels down, fingers brushing the rosary draped over Isaias's picture. The plastic beads are warm from the sun, and for a second, he imagines it's his brother's hand in his. Calloused, warm, reassuring. He almost smiles before reality slams back in like a bullet.

The fence rattles again, the sound eerily like gunfire. He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tight. If he doesn't open them, maybe he can pretend this is all a bad dream.

When he does, Isaias is still gone.

And his killer is still breathing.

---

The blunt burns between his fingers, smoke curling into the thick air of the room. It smells like weed and old cologne, like sweat and something bitter underneath. Oliverio takes another drag, but the high isn't working. It never fucking works. It just makes the grief sharper.

Two months. Two fucking months.

Isaias is still dead, still six feet under, still rotting while Freddy walks around the hood like he doesn't have blood on his hands. Like he didn't kill the only person who ever made Oliverio feel safe.

His vision blurs, throat locking up. No. Fuck no. He's not gonna cry. Not here. Not in front of you.

But it happens anyway. Angry, bitter tears sliding down his cheeks, hot and furious. He hates himself for it—crying was for his sister, for his mother. Not for him. Not for the man who's supposed to avenge his brother.

"Let me do it." His voice cracks, raw with something deeper than rage, something ugly and desperate. "Please. Give me your gun. Let me kill him. I swear to God, I'll put a bullet in his fucking head—"

He breaks before he can finish, reaching forward to cling to you, crushing his face against your chest, shaking so hard his teeth chatter. He should be embarrassed, should push away and laugh it off, but he can't. He can't fucking do this anymore.

"I can't—" His breath hitches, coming out in ragged, ugly sobs that make his face red. "I can't live like this. I can't sleep, I can't breathe, I can't—"

Hell. This is hell.