The engine's already running when I slide into the back seat.
Rico's Sabre rattles like it always does, dashboard cracked, radio low and full of static. Some late-night talk show fades in and out, nobody listening. The car smells like old oil and sweat. Familiar. Too familiar.
Lucas sits next to me, legs spread, elbows on his knees. He keeps rubbing his palms on his jeans like they're wet.
Carlito's in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, jaw tight. Nico drives quiet, shoulders stiff, both hands locked on the wheel.
Nobody's joking.
That's how I know this is real.
Fog rolls over the hood, thick and slow. Streetlights stretch into long yellow smears across the windshield.
"You sure about this, Beto?" Rico says, eyes still on the road.
"Yeah," I answer.
No hesitation. No drama.
Lucas shifts beside me. "Man… we could just scare him. Talk it out."
I don't look at him. "No."
Silence again.
I think about Rosa. Not crying. That's the part that sticks. She tried to act normal. Tried to laugh it off. But her hands were shaking when she poured water, and she wouldn't change clothes in front of anyone.
"No more Talking."
Rico slows the car a block from the warehouse. Kills the headlights.
"There," Carlito says quietly.
I see them through the fog. Three figures near the loading ramp. Sitting on crates. Smoking. Laughing. Like it's just another night. Like nothing bad ever happens to guys like them.
We stop the car.
For a second, nobody moves.
Lucas exhales. "Ride together," he mutters.
"Die together," Carlito finishes, without looking back.
We get out.
Cold air hits hard. Fog sticks to my clothes, damp and heavy. Gravel crunches under our shoes, loud as hell in the quiet. My heartbeat feels slow. Too slow.
We start walking.
At first, they don't notice us. Then one of them does. He nudges Pablo with his elbow. Pablo looks up, squints, then frowns when he recognizes me.
"Eh," he calls out, loud and lazy.
"The fuck you doing here Roberto. You lost, homes?"
I don't stop walking.
I stop right in front of him.
Close enough to smell his cheap weed.
Close enough to see the scar near his eyebrow. I grab his shirt and pull him up off the crate.
"You touched my sister." I say.
His boys move. Hands drifting toward their guns.
Lucas and Carlito are faster. Pistols up. Aimed. Steady.
Pablo looks at the guns, then back at me.
"There's no way out of this alive," he says calmly. "You know that, right?"
He leans closer, like he wants me to hear every word.
"Besides," he adds, low,
"your sister should be grateful. That skinny little bitch—"
Something inside me snaps.
My body moves before my head catches up. I shove Pablo hard in the chest. He stumbles back, surprise flashing across his face like he didn't believe this was really happening.
The gun's already in my hand.
I hear Lucas shout my name—"Beto!"—but it comes out stretched, far away, like I'm underwater. My finger tightens. The first shot cracks the night open.
Pablo jerks. The sound echoes off the warehouse walls, loud and wrong, like the city itself flinched. He looks down at his chest, confused, like he's trying to understand what part of the night he missed.
Then I shoot again.
And again.
He goes down hard, hitting the concrete on his side. His head snaps against the ground. He doesn't get back up.
For half a second, everything freezes.
Fog. Bodies. Guns halfway raised.
Then one of Pablo's boys reaches for his piece and the world starts moving again all at once.
"¡Mierda!" Lucas yells.
Gunfire erupts.
Carlito fires first, two quick shots. One of the Rifas spins and drops, screaming, hands clawing at his stomach.
The other one turns to run.
He doesn't make it far.
I don't even remember aiming. I just remember the kick of the gun, the flash, the sound bouncing back at me.
He falls forward, skids on the concrete, and stops moving.
Silence crashes down hard after that.
My ears ring like someone shoved needles into them. My chest feels tight, like I forgot how to breathe. I stand there staring at Pablo's body, smoke drifting up from my gun.
"Beto," Lucas says. His voice is shaky. "Bro… bro."
I look at him.
He's sitting on the ground now, back against the wall. His hand's on his leg. Blood on his fingers.
"Mierda," he whispers. "I got hit."
I move without thinking, crouch next to him. It's not bad. Just a graze. Blood looks worse at night.
"You're good," I say. "You're good. Just breathe."
He nods, but his eyes are wild. "Los Rifas, man. They're gonna come down on us hard."
I glance around. No taking it back.
"Que se jodan," I say, and even to me my voice sounds flat. Empty.
Carlito grabs my arm. Hard. "We gotta go. Now. Cops, Rifas, everybody."
He's right. I know he is.
I take one last look at Pablo.
I thought I'd feel something. Relief.
Satisfaction. Guilt. Anything.
There's nothing there.
"Vamos," I say.
We run.
Back to the Sabre. Rico's already got the engine roaring before the doors slam shut. Tires screech. The car fishtails for a second, then straightens out and disappears into the fog.
Nobody talks.
Lucas presses his jacket against his leg, jaw clenched. Carlito keeps looking back through the rear window. Rico drives like the devil's on his ass.
The city blurs past us. Lights. Corners. Shadows.
When Rico finally slows down, miles away from the docks, my hands start shaking.
That's when it hits me.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Just the weight of knowing I crossed something tonight.
And there's no crossing back.
---
I don't sleep Anymore.
I lay on my back staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks I've known since I was a kid.
One looks like a bird.
Another like a crooked cross.
I used to trace them with my eyes when I was younger, when my head was full of dumb shit like school and girls and getting out someday.
Now I just wait.
Every sound feels louder at night. Pipes knocking inside the walls. Someone walking past the building downstairs.
A car slowing too much on the street, engine idling just long enough to make my chest tighten.
I keep thinking it's them.
Los Rifas kicking the door in. Guns out. No talking.
It never happens.
That almost makes it worse.
When I finally drift off, it's not real sleep. Just flashes. Pablo's face when I grabbed him.The way his body hit the ground, heavy and wrong. I wake up with my jaw clenched so hard it hurts.
Morning comes gray and quiet.
The TV is already on in the kitchen.
My mother's sitting at the table, hands wrapped around a mug that's gone cold.
She hasn't taken a sip. She doesn't look at me when I walk in. The news anchor talks calmly, like this is just another story.
A late-night shootout near the docks.
Four men dead.
Authorities confirm they were members of the gang known as Los Rifas.
The screen shows the warehouse. Police tape. A glimpse of the ground where it happened, stained dark.
They blur the bodies, but it doesn't matter. I know where each one fell.
My father stands by the sink, back turned. He's been there a while. I can tell by the way his shoulders are locked, like he's holding something in and if he lets go, it all spills out.
Neither of them asks me anything.
That scares me more than yelling would.
I sit down.
The chair scrapes too loud against the floor.
My father turns slowly.
"Was it you?" he asks.
His voice is flat. No anger yet. Just a question that already knows the answer.
I open my mouth, then close it again.
He steps closer. "Answer me."
"Yeah," I say finally. "It was me."
The sound my mother makes is small. Like something breaking quietly.
My father stares at me for a long moment. Like he's looking at someone else wearing my face.
"You killed them," he says.
"They tried to rape Rosa," I shoot back. "What did you expect me to do?"
That's when it hits him.
Not the words. The certainty. The fact that I didn't hesitate.
He steps back and grips the counter, knuckles white. His breathing gets heavier. He doesn't look at my mother. He doesn't look at the TV. He looks at the floor.
"I told you not to get involved," he says. His voice cracks just a little. "I told you I would handle it!"
"She's my sister," I say again. Quieter now. "I couldn't just let it go."
He nods slowly, like he understands. And that hurts more than if he didn't.
"You think this ends with Pablo?" he asks.
"You think they'll just shrug and move on?"
"They don't know it was me," I say. "We were careful."
"For now," he snaps. "But they always find out."
He finally looks at me again.
"You can't stay here," he says.
I shake my head. "I can't just run."
"You can," he says. "And you will."
My chest tightens. "I'll handle it. I'll stay low."
"And when they don't come for you?" he fires back. "When they come for your mother? Your sister? When someone decides to send a message like they did with the shop?"
That shuts me up.
Rosa stands in the doorway now. Pale. Eyes red. She hasn't cried in front of me since she was a kid.
Seeing her like this makes something twist in my stomach.
"I didn't want this," she says quietly. "I didn't want you to ruin your life for me."
I stand up. "You didn't ruin anything."
My father rubs his face with both hands. When he drops them, his eyes are wet.
"I failed you," he says. "I raised you around this shit. Made you think this was how men solve things."
He exhales slowly.
"You're leaving," he says. "Today."
I start to protest, but he raises a hand.
"I'll call your cousin," he continues. " You'll stay with him until things cool down."
"And if they don't?" I ask.
"Then at least they won't bleed on this house."
There's nothing I can say to that.
The rest of the day feels unreal.
I pack slowly. Too slowly. Like if I take my time, the decision might change. Old clothes. A jacket.
My gun goes in last. I stare at it for a long moment before putting it away.
That night, we eat together.
Nobody raises their voice. Nobody brings up what happened. We talk about nothing. Food. Weather. Some bullshit story my father heard at the shop.
It feels like pretending, but I play along.
After dinner, my mother hugs me hard. Like she's afraid I might disappear if she lets go.
Rosa hugs me next. She doesn't say anything. She just presses her forehead to my chest for a second.
"Be careful," she whispers.
"I will," I lie.
My Declasse Vamos waits at the curb, orange paint faded.
I toss my bag inside and start the engine. It growls back at me.
I don't look at the house.
I pull onto the road, San Fierro shrinking behind me. Los Santos waits ahead.