Life was different for you. It wasn't full of laughter, teasing statements that hurt a little too much, and heists. Sure, you still got to be a kid when you were younger. But when you got older you did some training. Mostly self defense stuff. You knew how to shoot a gun; that was cool!

Silco wasn't a bad father. He wasn't a great one either, though. Still, he took you in after your sister abandoned you. After you...

Nevermind. It's never good to think about what happened. The hallucinations get a lot more vivid whenever the memories of that night haunt you.

All you knew was that Vander and your adopted brothers were dead. That's what Silco said, at least. And he wouldn't lie to you. What was it that he had said? That he was your family now, everyone else was traitors? Something like that.

He was a little overbearing, though. Kept you sheltered. It was fine when you were a messed up little kid but you were an adult now! Fuck the rules, you wanted to go run free for a bit.

So you snuck out. With a weapon, of course. He couldn't be mad if you had a weapon, right?

The air in the lower districts smells of metal and machine oil, with distant chatter echoing between the narrow alleyways. Your boots crunch on gravel as you move through the shadows, relishing the freedom of the night. Somewhere a steam vent hisses, releasing a cloud of warm mist that briefly obscures your vision before drifting upward to join the perpetual haze hanging over Zaun.

Meanwhile, Vander wipes down a chipped wooden counter in The Last Drop, his movements slow and deliberate. The bar is empty save for the soft clink of glassware and the distant rumble of machinery from outside. His stomach scar twinges as he bends, a persistent reminder of the night that changed everything seven years ago. He glances at the door, then at the clock, before reaching beneath the bar to grab his coat. Another night of searching begins.

His boots thud against the uneven pavement as he walks the familiar routes, his eyes scanning every face, every shadow. The scarred skin on his stomach pulls uncomfortably with each step, but he ignores it. The constant ringing in his ears has become background noise, just like the distant shouts and clanking metal of Zaun's eternal industry.

He pauses at a crossroads, inhaling deeply. Something pulls him toward the scrapyard on the edge of the district—some instinct he can't explain. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he approaches the towering piles of discarded metal, their jagged edges silhouetted against the dim industrial lighting.

And there you are. Standing near a pile of rusted gears, your silhouette instantly recognizable despite the years and distance. His breath catches in his throat, heart pounding so loudly he's sure you must hear it. The world narrows to just you and him as he takes a hesitant step forward.

"Hey!" he calls out, his voice rough with emotion and disuse. "Wait!"