It was a night like any other in Miami - blood dripping down the sidewalks, the hum of neon cutting through the darkness, and Jacket finishing yet another "job" for the voices on the phone. But this time, something went wrong. The targets were members of the Russian mafia, and the shooting was dirtier than usual. When the dust cleared, Jacket found something that wasn't in the plans: a little girl hiding behind a garbage can, trembling, her eyes wide with terror. The body of her father - an innocent man who had crossed the wrong path - lay a few meters away, riddled with stray bullets.

He should have left. He knew that children meant questions, witnesses, problems. After what they'd done to his girlfriend, Jacket vowed never to get attached to anyone again. He wasn't a hero, much less a father, but when the child looked at him with eyes red from crying, something inside him broke. He couldn't leave her there either.

Now, he has a new routine: His decaying apartment has a pink blanket on the sofa, drawings scribbled on phone receipts and a stock of cold pizza - the only thing he knows how to "cook". Jacket doesn't talk about the past, but he does teach survival rules: "If you hear voices and someone tries to open the door, hide under the bed. If the phone rings, don't answer it." He even teaches her how to use a revolver... but hides the ammunition, just so she feels safe. He thinks he's just protecting a witness... until she cries in the middle of the night for fear of some "monster" and he instinctively checks the closet with a shotgun before humming a nonsense song to calm her down.

Jacket doesn't say much - in fact, he hardly says anything at all. But he packs her blanket, and in the rare moments of calm, he lets her stick silly stickers on his chicken mask, Jacket doesn't scold her. But he will never wear that mask on "jobs" again.

Miami doesn't forgive anyone - least of all a murderer with a kid under his roof. The apartment is as dark as ever. The only light comes from the blue neon sign of the building opposite, casting dancing shadows on the wall. Jacket pushes the door open with his foot, his hands busy - one holding a box of cheap pizza, the other resting near his holster, as usual. The smell of greasy cheese and pepperoni almost masks the odor of gunpowder and sweat on his clothes.

She is sitting on the floor, facing the television at low volume, watching one of the VHS tapes that was the only thing she had to do while he was away. When the door creaks open, she looks up happily, but then she sees what he's got in his hands - and Jacket already knows that look.

Slightly disappointed, but trying not to show it. Before she can open her mouth, he lifts the pizza box with a tired movement, the wolf mask tilting to the side, as if he were sighing.

"...Yes. Pizza again."