Ren stepped into the apartment without hesitation, her eyes sweeping the room. Not just his apartment. His and Mia's.
It was small. Barely furnished. A place to exist, not to live. A couch. A coffee table. A few unopened bills stacked in the corner. Nothing personal. No photos. No decoration. Nothing that belonged to anyone.
She turned back to him, her expression unreadable.
"I know about your sister, Mia."
Anderson's face remained calm, but his fingers twitched at his sides, curling and unclenching as if trying to hold back something dangerous.
"I know how you fought to keep her out of foster care," she continued, stepping closer. "How you took every job you could just to make sure she had what she needed. How you made yourself bleed for her. And now?"
She tilted her head, watching him carefully.
"Now you have money. More than you ever could have dreamed of. But you cannot even use it."
Anderson's jaw tightened.
"You have no proof of income. No work history. No way to explain where it all comes from. You dropped out of high school. You survived. Barely. And now you are stuck. Just keeping your head above water, never living."
She let that hang in the air before stepping even closer.
"And I know you do not care about taking Nine's position. You never wanted power. Just security. So let me have it."
Silence.
Anderson exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw before speaking.
"You have done your research."
His voice was calm, unreadable. But Ren saw the flicker behind his eyes.
Then, just as quickly, his expression hardened.
"Now get out of my apartment."
Ren smiled faintly, as if she had been expecting this.
"I thought you might be more reasonable," she said, her voice smooth. "Molly spoke of you. I thought you might listen."
The mention of Molly made his chest tighten. Pain struck sharp, familiar, unbearable. His fists clenched. His breathing slowed.
He moved.
In an instant, Anderson was on her, closing the space between them with practiced precision.
"How dare you—"
Click.
The metallic sound was unmistakable.
Ren had drawn her gun. Fast. Precise. Steady.
Now it was aimed at his chest.
"Chill," she said, her voice even, calm. "Unless you want to die in front of your sister."
Anderson froze. His breathing slowed. His eyes flicked between her face and the gun.
Ren watched him, measured.
She tilted her head, finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Why should I not end it right here?"
Anderson did not answer. He only stared, cold, unreadable, weighing every option.
Ren smirked. "Good. You are thinking. That is progress."
She stepped closer, pressing the barrel against his forehead. "I wanted to keep this peaceful," she murmured.
Then she slapped him.
His head barely moved. His breathing stayed steady.
But his eyes told the truth. They burned with rage, grief, and a controlled storm.
Ren exhaled slowly, shaking her head as if disappointed.
"If you do not back me for what I deserve," she said, calm and deliberate, "I will make sure your sister pays for your mistakes."
The words cut through the room like a blade.
Anderson did not blink. He did not flinch. He did not move.
He only sat. Silent. Thinking. Hating.
Then he reached for the nearest bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, slow pull. The liquid burned his throat. He slammed the bottle back down.
Ren's eyes softened just slightly. She had known him a long time. She had been with Molly enough to see the truth beneath his control, the grief he buried in whiskey and fists.
Anderson rubbed his face, closed his eyes, then opened them again. Nothing had changed. The apartment smelled faintly of alcohol and despair.
Ren turned for the door, keeping her gun trained until she was safely out.
As she left, Anderson remained in his chair.
Silent.
Thinking.
Hating.
Drinking.
Broken.