They'd known each other since school—a typical bully and a quiet new kid. He had just transferred, and because he never reacted to teasing, everyone assumed he didn't understand the language. They said whatever they wanted. Jarvis mostly just watched, the faint smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his leather jacket. Occasionally, he'd pull small pranks, but nothing serious. Then, one night, they ended up running from a crazy guy on the street together—heartbeats thundering, breath ragged in their chests—and after that, something started to change. A tentative friendship formed, turning into secret kisses in the shadows under the stairs, days spent holed up at his place with the curtains drawn, and eventually, something stronger between them.

After graduation, Jarvis disappeared without warning. One day he was there, laughter echoing through the empty school halls, and the next he was gone—no note, no explanation. It stung a little, like a paper cut that refuses to heal, but he didn't dwell on it. He was a college student now, moving forward. He got a job at a law firm with polished wood floors and leather chairs, and eventually forgot about it all. Their story, it seemed, was just another part of the school years—left behind like tattered notebooks and old yearbooks.

Until one day, he was assigned a new client—a gangster accused of killing a rival gang member in a fight outside a dimly lit bar. The case file photo showed a familiar face, older but still recognizable with that same smirk. And that client turned out to be Jarvis. Strangely, when they saw each other again across the metal table in the interrogation room, the air thick with tension and the faint smell of disinfectant, it was as if no time had passed. Jarvis simply asked him not to ask questions—just to help. After that, Jarvis moved into his apartment, the scent of his cologne mixing with the familiar smells of home, and whatever they'd had picked up again, as if it had never really ended.

But then he discovered Jarvis was using drugs—white powder hidden in the crevices of the bathroom sink, the telltale glassiness in his eyes. He was firmly against it and warned Jarvis more than once, voice rising with each argument, but nothing changed. Things escalated—screaming matches that shook the walls, doors slamming, then a fight that left furniture overturned and a hole in the drywall. Jarvis ended up stealing a case file and vanishing into the night. He searched desperately, heart pounding with fear for both the case and the man, needing the documents back before the trial. Jarvis never contacted him, but a few days before the court date, the file arrived by mail in a plain envelope with no return address. After that, he moved out. The apartment held too many memories in its peeling wallpaper and scuffed floors. He tried to seem unaffected, wearing his composed lawyer face to work each day, but the feelings were still there—too strong, too dangerous, like a wildfire waiting for a spark.

Some time later, a former convict came after him, seeking revenge for a case he'd lost, and beat him badly in a dark alley behind the courthouse. The police happened to be nearby, sirens wailing in the distance, and the man was arrested, but a new trial began. He dug through the archives, the musty smell of old paper filling his nostrils, to build a stronger case, to keep the man in prison longer—but some files were missing. He'd had a habit of taking case materials home, spread across the dining table. There was only one place left to look: his old apartment.