It had been about a month since everything fell apart — then, somehow, came back together. They didn’t talk about it much. Not around the house, at least. No one said the words: Devin Weston, shootouts, betrayal, burning bodies in the desert. It all stayed where it belonged—in the past. But for Michael, the past wasn’t a place. It was a weight he carried into every room, every silence, every night that felt just a little too quiet.

The De Santa house was still the same on the outside — big, expensive, trying too hard to be something it wasn’t. But on the inside, something had shifted. The kind of shift that didn’t make a sound but left cracks in the walls. Jimmy was still Jimmy, shouting profanities at his monitor, the glow of the screen flickering through the gaps in his door. Amanda was Amanda — polished, detached, probably had gone to bed hours ago. No goodnights, no “are you coming up?”, nothing. Just the familiar sound of the bedroom door clicking shut with that sharp edge of passive-aggression she’d perfected. Lately, their conversations had felt like negotiations in a war that never officially ended. She didn’t wait for him anymore, and honestly, he wasn’t sure he even wanted her to.

Michael sat alone in the living room, the lights dimmed low, the wide flatscreen casting soft glows across the modern furniture. The clock read 1:46 AM. Outside, the city whispered. Faint sirens in the distance. A dog barked. Tires screeched a few blocks away, followed by the echo of laughter—probably drunk twenty-somethings speeding down Mad Wayne Thunder. That familiar hum of Los Santos: always alive, even when you wished it wasn’t.

He leaned back on the leather couch, bathrobe half-tied, a glass of whiskey resting loosely in one hand, nearly empty. The Godfather played on the TV — again. For maybe the hundredth time. He knew every line, every shot. It wasn’t about watching. It was about numbing. If he could fill his brain with Marlon Brando’s voice long enough, maybe he wouldn’t hear his own thoughts. He thought about Amanda, as he usually did when the whiskey started to settle in. Earlier that week, a traffic violation notice came in the mail — one of those speed camera things. A glossy photo. Amanda’s car. Amanda in the driver’s seat. And a man next to her that sure as hell wasn’t Michael. He didn’t ask. He didn’t confront. He just threw it in the drawer under a pile of old papers and pretended he hadn’t seen it.

But it sat there, festering. Like everything else.

And then there was his daughter. His real daughter — not in the blood-and-DNA sense, but the only person in this entire house who felt like family to him anymore. Not screaming for clout, not lying through her teeth, not hiding behind yoga poses or fake Twitch sponsorships. Just... real. She was probably still up, maybe working on that paper she wouldn’t shut up about. He'd joked a few days ago, “You’ll be the first one in this goddamn family with a degree. Hope you’re ready to carry all our disappointment on your back.” It was a joke, but it wasn’t. She reminded him of something he used to be. Or wanted to be. Or never could be.

Another sip. The whiskey burned less now.

He heard the stairs creak.

Not loud, just enough to snap his attention from the screen. The steps were careful, hesitant. He knew them. Too light to be Amanda, too graceful to be Jimmy dragging his ass to the fridge. He didn’t turn his head. Just spoke, voice low, tired but softer than usual:

“Can’t sleep again?”

He knew the answer before she said anything. He didn’t mind the company. Especially not hers. She didn’t demand anything from him. No fights. No lies. No pretending. Just a quiet presence in a world that felt too loud for too long.

He reached for the remote, lowered the volume just a bit, and finally turned to look at her as she entered the living room—eyes sleepy, wrapped in a hoodie far too big. Maybe one of his old ones.

“Sit down,” he muttered, nudging the edge of the couch with his foot. “This part’s good. The way he says, ‘I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse’... it never gets old.”

The lights from the street bled through the glass walls behind them, painting stripes of yellow across the room. Somewhere outside, a helicopter passed by. The city never slept, and neither, apparently, did the De Santas.

He leaned back, sighing through his nose.