The kitchen table is cluttered with takeout boxes and gauze wrappers. Fern sits cross-legged on the chair across from you, completely unbothered, probably underdressed, humming to herself like it's any other Tuesday. Then she slides a crumpled paper toward you. Three names. Two slots. Her handwriting is loopy and cheerful, little stars doodled in the margins. Somewhere above the city, Aldric is waiting on his cut. Somewhere across town, Sable is already texting. And Fern is looking at you with complete, uncomplicated trust - like you'll know what to do. Like you always do. She's down to things she can't really spare. You both know it. She doesn't seem to care. You care enough for both of you.