Christmas evening—December 25th—and northern Vermont looked like it had been smothered on purpose.
Snow sat thick on everything: the shoulders of the road, the bowed backs of pines, the stone walls half-buried like old bones. The sky was steel-gray and heavy, the kind that made the woods feel quieter than they had any right to be. In the outskirts of Stowe, the world held its breath. Flakes drifted down slow and lazy, catching the faintest moonlight as they slipped between branches, turning the air into a soft, cold glitter.
Through it all rolled a car that didn't belong in any Christmas postcard.
A matte-black 2008 Ford Crown Victoria—battered, tired, and ugly in that specific way a vehicle gets when it's survived too many winters and too many lies. It had once been a proud police interceptor. Now it looked like something you'd ignore at a gas station: faded paint, dented bumpers, scratches spidering across the tinted windows like old scars. The tires crunched through snow and gravel with a quiet, steady insistence.
But the Crown Vic lied for a living.
Under the worn-out skin lived hidden compartments, emergency gear, and enough tactical nonsense to make the trunk feel like a portable armory. The kind of car you could park anywhere and nobody would look twice—right up until the night everything went loud.
Frank Armstrong drove.
Thirty-five. Lean. Athletic in a way that wasn't gym vanity, but discipline—like his body was a tool he kept sharpened because the job demanded it. His face was handsome if you looked quickly, severe if you looked longer. Short golden-blond hair, neatly cut. Blue eyes that didn't just "watch the road," but read it—ice shine, drift buildup, blind corners, the subtle sway of snow in the headlight beams. Every detail filed away like evidence.
He dressed the way undercover guys dressed when they were trying not to look like undercover guys: dark tactical sweater, worn vest, cargo pants, black boots. Practical. Quiet. Nothing flashy.
Except for the Glock 19 riding his thigh like a second heartbeat, and the M4 carbine within reach—military-grade, close enough to grab without thinking.
In the passenger seat sat Bruce Redford, a man who made the car look like it had shrunk around him in fear.
Nearly six-eight and around three-fifty, Bruce was all elbows and knees crammed into a space built for normal human beings. His legs pressed into the glove compartment. His shoulder crowded the door. His head—big, egg-shaped, tilted slightly—rested against the window like the glass was a pillow. And on his face, at night, in a snow-covered forest, he wore cheap sunglasses.
They were heavily scratched. They made him look like a parody of a badass. Bruce wore them anyway, like the world could argue with him and lose.
His clothes were a disaster in layers. A faded gray hoodie stretched across shoulders like a tarp, with a ketchup stain that had long ago stopped being embarrassing and started being permanent. Sleeves frayed from nervous pulling. Over that, a battered black tactical vest that looked like it had survived a bar fight—straps patched with silver duct tape, doing their best to contain him. Threadbare jeans, knees frayed. And on his feet: battered white sneakers with mismatched laces, soles peeling at the edges.
A faded sticker of the White Tree of Gondor clung stubbornly to one heel like it refused to die.
Bruce didn't notice any of it. He never really did. Comfort, for him, came from whatever was familiar—no matter how ridiculous it looked.
Across his lap rested an AR-15.
Bruce had named it Happygun.
Not as a joke. Not ironically. He'd said it with the same sincerity some men used when they talked about their kids.
The rifle itself—black, clean, real—should've looked menacing. But Bruce had decorated it like a kindergarten lunchbox. Cheerful stickers: fluffy white bunnies smiling like idiots, stuck along the receiver. Near the grip, Jedi Master Yoda stared serenely outward, a small green face reminding the universe to calm down.
Bruce's massive hand moved slowly along the barrel, gentle as petting a dog.
Frank glanced sideways, caught the motion, and had to swallow a smile before it escaped. He gave the tiniest shake of his head—part exasperation, part affection, the kind of expression you wore when your partner was impossible but still yours.
They didn't talk.
They didn't need to.
Years of work—real work, the kind that left marks you couldn't photograph—had carved an understanding between them deeper than conversation. The car hummed. The snow hissed under the tires. The heater breathed warm air that smelled faintly like old upholstery and gun oil.
The world outside was all frozen black and white.
Then something moved.
A blur darted from the underbrush—gray, low, fast—and skittered into the road. A rat, big enough to be seen clearly in the headlights. It froze dead center, tiny black eyes catching the light for a split second like pinpricks of oil.
Frank saw it instantly. His expression didn't change. His foot stayed steady, calculating distance and traction like a computer that didn't panic.
Bruce did not have that kind of brain.
He jolted forward like he'd been shot. Both hands slammed out to brace against the dashboard.
"O-oh SHIT, STOP!"
Frank reacted on reflex—because that was what you did when your partner screamed like death had just stepped into the headlights. His boot hit the brake. The Crown Vic skidded, tires biting and sliding, throwing up a soft cloud of powder that swirled through the beams like ghost smoke.
The rat twitched, whiskers trembling.
Then it bolted—vanishing into the opposite brush like it had never been there at all.
Silence dropped back down.
Frank turned slowly toward Bruce.
His face didn't look angry. It looked tired in a very specific way—like irritation had to wait its turn behind ten years of bigger problems.
"You screamed like we nearly hit a child," Frank said.
Bruce sank back into his seat, shoulders hunched, cheeks going a little pink. He kept his hands on Happygun like it was the only thing holding him together.
"I-I'm sorry, Frank," he mumbled, the stutter catching on the apology like it always did when he got emotional. "B-but did you s-see that? L-little guy made it. Brave little bastard."
Frank exhaled through his nose. Long. Controlled. Like he was letting air out of a balloon instead of letting his patience explode.
"Bruce," he said, flat and steady. "It's a rat."
Bruce stared toward the bushes where it had disappeared, eyes serious behind those stupid sunglasses. His thumb brushed the edge of the Yoda sticker like he was drawing courage from it.
"Yeah," he said softly. "B-but… some p-people get clear paths. Safe l-lanes. Bulletproof lives." He swallowed. His voice got slower, heavier. "Some of us… we j-just gotta run. Alone. Scared. But still trying."
Frank didn't answer immediately.
The words hit in an awkward place—not in the "poetic" part of him, because Frank didn't really live there, but in the part that kept a private list of dead friends and ruined cases and nights he'd driven home with blood under his nails.
Bruce, in his giant broken way, sometimes said things that were too honest to ignore.
Frank turned his gaze forward again. The headlights lit the road in a narrow tunnel, snow swirling at the edges.
"We're almost there," he said finally, quieter than before. Not agreement. Not comfort. But acknowledgment. The closest thing Frank offered.
"Let's stay focused."
Bruce nodded, small and solemn for a man his size.
The Crown Vic rolled forward again, tires crunching, engine low. The woods closed around them. Christmas lights glowed faintly in the far distance—houses tucked away, families warm inside, people opening gifts and pretending the world was safe.
Frank eased the Crown Vic off the narrow road and let it roll the last few meters on idle, tires whispering through untouched snow. He parked it deep in the shadows behind a dense stand of pine trees, their branches heavy with white, needles sagging like tired sentries. The engine clicked softly as it cooled, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the cold.
They sat there.
Ahead of them, the mansion rose from the clearing like a postcard lie.
An upscale ski lodge—stone foundation, thick timber walls, wide balconies wrapped around its upper floors. Someone had strung Christmas lights along the railings, red and green bulbs blinking unevenly, half the strands sagging like they'd been thrown up drunk and forgotten. Warm yellow light bled through frosted windows, the glow of fireplaces and bad decisions. From a distance, it looked cozy. Inviting. The kind of place families rented to pretend they were closer than they really were.
Bruce and Frank knew better.
The front yard was a mess.
Luxury vehicles littered the snow-covered drive and clearing—thirty, maybe forty of them, parked wherever their owners had felt like stopping. Black SUVs with tinted windows. Loud muscle cars with snow clinging to their hoods. Sedans that screamed money. Even a couple of low-slung sports cars that had no business surviving a Vermont winter.
Each one was a body.
Each one meant another criminal inside—men and women who'd decided that Christmas night was best spent high, drunk, armed, and far away from anyone who might care.
Bruce leaned forward, squinting behind his scratched sunglasses.
But he wasn't looking at the house.
His gaze had locked onto something off to the right side of the lodge, half-buried in snow but impossible to miss once you noticed it.
A massive industrial diesel fuel tank.
It sat absurdly close to the structure, painted a dull, utilitarian red. The surface was scratched and weathered, warnings stenciled across it in block letters that had begun to fade but were still unmistakable under the moonlight.
DANGER – FLAMMABLE.
NO SMOKING.
KEEP FIRE AWAY.
Bruce stared at it like a pilgrim who'd just found a shrine.
To him, the placement wasn't careless. It wasn't a zoning violation or contractor laziness. It felt… intentional. Like the universe had nudged something into position and then stepped back to see who would notice.
Something heavy settled in his chest—calm, resolute, terrifyingly certain.
Frank was already moving.
He reached for the police radio mounted near the dash, fingers practiced, voice slipping into that smooth professional tone that shut emotion out of the equation.
"Unit Bravo-Fourteen—"
A large hand closed gently around his wrist.
Frank stopped mid-syllable.
He turned, irritation flashing hot and immediate. "Bruce," he hissed. "We've gone over this. We do not handle this alone. Not tonight. There's fifty people in there—maybe more."
Bruce didn't look at him.
His eyes stayed on the fuel tank.
"Th-that's why it's perfect," Bruce said quietly. "I-I know you think I'm crazy, b-but this is a sign." He swallowed. "W-we blow that tank, the whole thing's over. No more f-fentanyl. No s-standoff. No good c-cops bleeding out in the snow."
Frank stared at him, disbelief sharpening his voice. "This isn't a movie. You don't just blow things up because they look convenient. We're cops. Protocol exists so people don't do exactly what you're suggesting."
Bruce finally turned.
He took off his sunglasses and folded them carefully, like he was putting away something important. His eyes were gentle. Earnest. The kind of sincerity that made arguments slide right off him.
"L-look," he said softly. "If we call this in, SWAT comes. S-standoff drags on for hours. People d-die—good people. Criminals get p-plea deals. Light s-sentences. Then they're back, p-poisoning m-more kids."
He nodded once, small but absolute.
"This tank," he said. "It's like God p-put it there."
Frank shook his head slowly, a deep, exhausted sound escaping him. "Bruce… this is crazy."
The word didn't land.
Bruce had already opened the car door.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean. Snow crunched softly as he stepped out, shouldering Happygun with care, like he was lifting something fragile instead of lethal. The bunnies smiled. Yoda watched calmly.
He turned back one last time.
"I-I'm sorry, Frank," Bruce said. "But I c-can't just sit and w-watch. W-we promised we'd protect people. Th-this is our chance."
Then he closed the door—gently, because that was who he was—and began lumbering across the clearing, his massive silhouette moving with surprising quiet through the snow.
"Goddammit, Bruce," Frank whispered.
He slammed a gloved hand into the steering wheel, frustration sharp enough to hurt. For half a second, he stayed there—alone in the dark, protocol screaming in his head, reports and consequences lining up like ghosts.
Then loyalty won. It always did.
Frank was already moving.
He slipped out of the car, popped the trunk just enough to avoid noise, and geared up fast. Helmet on. Vest tightened. Extra mags checked without looking. M4 in hand, familiar weight settling his nerves. The trunk closed with a careful click.
Bruce was already halfway to the lodge.
Frank jogged low through the snow, breath controlled, boots placing themselves without thought. He ducked behind a black SUV near the edge of the clearing and dropped into a crouch, scanning windows, doors, shadows. Nothing stirred. The house slept—drugged, drunk, careless.
Frank pressed the mic on his vest, whispering, "Bruce. I'm at your six behind the black SUV. Confirm your position."
Nothing.
No reply. No static. Just snow falling.
Frank closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. "Of course you forgot your damn radio again," he muttered. "Damn it, Bruce."
He peeked around the SUV, eyes tracking Bruce's massive form as it moved steadily toward the fuel tank—awkward, unstoppable, utterly convinced.
Inside the lodge, more than fifty criminals lay sprawled across couches and floors, empty bottles and powder-dusted tables glowing under soft holiday lights. Laughter echoed faintly from somewhere deep inside. Someone had put on music. Someone had passed out.
None of them knew how close the night was to ending.
Frank tightened his grip on his rifle, jaw set hard.
Protocol was gone now. Reports didn't matter. Backup wasn't coming.
All that was left was a frozen clearing, a fuel tank glowing dully under the moon, and a giant of a man walking toward destiny with cartoon stickers on his gun.
Frank exhaled once, steadying himself.
They were in this together, he thought grimly.
Whether he liked it or not.
Snow kept falling, indifferent and soft, settling gently over chrome hoods and tinted windshields. It dusted the chaos into something almost orderly, like nature was trying—politely—to hide the evidence.
The mansion glowed on, blissfully unaware.
Warm light spilled from its windows, Christmas colors blinking lazily along the balconies, as if the house itself believed it was hosting nothing more dangerous than bad wine and worse music.
Bruce moved through the clearing like a man inside a dream.
Frank's whispered curses never reached him. Protocol didn't exist anymore. Consequences didn't either. All that mattered was the steady rhythm in his chest and the quiet, stubborn certainty lodged deep in his bones.
Tonight mattered.
Christmas night.
If there was ever a time to do the right thing—even if it hurt—this was it.
He cradled Happygun carefully, massive hands gentle around the familiar weight. His breath fogged in the cold air. Snow crunched softly under his boots as the fuel tank grew larger with every step, its industrial red paint dull and chipped, rust blooming along its seams like old wounds.
It was too close to the mansion. Anyone with half a brain could see that.
Bruce didn't see negligence.
He saw intent.
A gift.
He stopped beside it and inhaled deeply, steadying himself. For once—just once—Bruce tried to think ahead.
A plan.
He fumbled into the pocket of his hoodie, fingers digging past loose coins, lint, folded receipts, and candy wrappers. His hand closed around plastic and metal, and he pulled them out, spreading them carefully across his enormous palm.
Lighters.
He smiled despite himself.
There was the Darth Vader lighter—YOUR EMPIRE NEEDS YOU, Vader pointing like he meant business.
A sleek black Lord of the Rings lighter, gold letters reading One Ring to Rule Them All, an elegant dagger framed by Elvish script.
Another one—Gandalf facing the Balrog, fire and shadow frozen in eternal defiance.
A cheap black-and-white lighter that read, Work Hard & Be Nice to People.
And finally, a polished metal one, engraved simply:
Light the Way to Your Dreams.
Bruce swallowed.
He'd bought them months ago at a convention. He didn't smoke—never had. He'd just thought they were neat. Thought Frank's kids might like them. Then Amber had drained his wallet that day, and the gifts never happened. The lighters stayed with him instead, jangling in his pocket like tiny talismans.
He chose two.
Vader.
The One Ring.
Carefully, reverently, Bruce placed them on the frozen ground near the base of the tank. He flipped them open and sparked them to life. Two small flames bloomed, steady and patient, licking at the air.
Tiny suns.
Tiny promises.
Satisfied, Bruce turned to the tank's heavy valve and wrapped both hands around it. He pulled.
Nothing.
He pulled harder.
The valve resisted, then screamed—a shrill metallic shriek ripping through the quiet night.
Bruce froze.
Inside the mansion, someone shouted.
"Hey! Who's messin' with my car?!"
"Sh-shit," Bruce whispered.
He ducked around the corner of the lodge, pressing his massive body flat against the wall. Instinctively, he reached for his radio—
Empty fabric.
His shoulders sagged.
"D-damn it," he muttered. "No radio again… Frank's gonna k-kill me."
Footsteps crunched in the snow.
A door opened.
Bruce closed his eyes, took a breath, and reached for the deepest tactical training he had.
YouTube.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out from the shadows, voice echoing awkwardly across the side yard.
"Moo! M-moo! C-come here, y-you gangster cow!"
"Your mother w-was a hamster!"
The footsteps sped up.
Angry now.
The side door burst open.
Bruce stepped out, rifle rising—
And stopped.
The man standing in front of him barely reached Bruce's chest.
Four-foot-something. Broad shoulders. Leather jacket two sizes too big. Gold chains stacked thick against his neck. His face—sharp, expressive, furious—looked uncannily like Peter Dinklage mid-monologue.
"What you callin' cow, freak?" the man snapped, hand darting for the pistol tucked into his waistband.
Bruce didn't think.
He surged forward.
They hit the ground hard, sliding across frozen dirt. The little man fought like hell—fast, vicious, teeth bared. He bit down on Bruce's hand with shocking force.
"Ow! S-stop!" Bruce yelped.
Pain flared.
Reflex took over.
His fist swung—too hard, too fast.
There was a sharp crack.
Then nothing.
The little man went limp beneath him, eyes wide, anger frozen forever in his expression.
Bruce stared.
"N-no," he whispered. "N-no, no…"
He shook the little body gently, like that might fix it.
"W-wake up," he pleaded. "P-please."
The dwarf did not move.
The truth settled into Bruce's chest like wet concrete.
Then shouting erupted from inside the lodge.
More footsteps.
A door slammed open again.
Another man emerged—tall, wiry, gun already coming up.
A single shot cracked through the night.
The man jerked and collapsed backward into the snow.
Frank's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. "Bruce, move! They're waking up!"
Inside, the mansion exploded into life—voices shouting, boots pounding, doors slamming open. Panic replaced drunken comfort in seconds.
Bruce scrambled to his feet and ran for the tank.
He grabbed the valve again, wrenching with everything he had. Rust shrieked. Metal protested.
Then it gave.
Fuel poured out, dark and stinking, soaking into snow that hissed softly under the sudden warmth.
Bruce lunged for the lighters—
Gunfire erupted.
Bullets tore into the ground around him, snapping dirt and ice into the air. He dove behind the tank just as rounds slammed into metal, sparks flying dangerously close to the leaking fuel.
Pinned.
Exposed.
His plan lay in pieces at his feet.
The lighters burned uselessly.
Blood stained his trembling hand.
The night roared with gunfire.
Bruce pressed his back against the freezing tank, breath coming fast and ragged. Bullets cracked and clanged around him, metal ringing like church bells gone mad.
He squeezed Happygun tight.
Too tight.
His eyes dropped to the stickers—the smiling bunnies, Yoda's calm, knowing face.
"H-Happygun… p-please protect me from these b-bad guys," Bruce whispered, voice thin and shaking. "I-I don't want to k-kill anyone else. I-I didn't kill that dwarf—y-you did, r-right? Y-you understand."
He drew a breath that scraped his chest raw and leaned out from behind the tank.
The night exploded.
Bruce fired in wild, panicked bursts, the rifle bucking against his shoulder like a living thing. Muzzle flashes tore bright holes in the darkness. He saw a man stumble and fall. Then another. Each time someone dropped, Bruce flinched like he'd been struck himself.
"I-It wasn't me," he murmured between shots. "H-Happygun did it. I-I'm s-sorry…"
Across the clearing, Frank moved like a shadow with intent.
He flowed between parked cars, low and fast, firing short, disciplined bursts. He never stayed still long enough to be found. To the criminals, he must have looked unreal—too quick, too precise—like a furious little animal darting through a maze, always just a half-second ahead of the bullets meant for him.
Back at the tank, gasoline kept pouring out, the stink sharp enough to burn the nose. Bruce fumbled in his pockets again, hands slick and trembling, and pulled out the lighters. He placed them carefully in the snow, close enough to kiss the spreading fuel. Their tiny flames burned steady and brave, stubborn points of light against the chaos.
Please, he prayed silently. Please let this work.
Gunfire slammed into the tank, sparks snapping dangerously close to the pooling fuel. Bruce knew—somewhere, dimly—that he didn't have long. Ten meters away, a line of parked cars waited, and beyond them the dark woods. Ten meters didn't sound far.
For Bruce, it might as well have been the moon.
His mind betrayed him then, drifting to something soft and impossible.
The gymnast.
He saw her as clearly as if she were there—small, fast, beautiful. Blonde pigtails bouncing. Blue eyes bright behind a colorful mask. Her body moved like it belonged to music rather than gravity, flipping and spinning with a joy Bruce had never once felt inside his own skin.
She had grace.
He didn't.
His thoughts snagged clumsily on the shape of her, on curves that confused him—those soft places women had, the ones that fed babies, the ones men didn't have at all. Why don't men have that? he wondered, absurdly, before shaking his head hard.
Amber's voice cut through the memory, sharp and angry—yelling about broken furniture, about him trying to copy things he wasn't built to do.
If I could move like her, Bruce thought desperately. If I was small. Fast. Maybe the bullets wouldn't find me.
He fired one last ragged burst toward the mansion, then ducked back, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might tear him open. He waited—counting nothing, listening to everything—for the briefest break in the storm.
When it came, it was barely a breath.
"Please," Bruce whispered, like a prayer and a bargain. "L-let me b-be graceful l-like you. J-just this once. I-I don't wanna d-die clumsy."
He ran.
Or tried to.
Bruce hurled himself forward, imagining flips and spins, his huge body launching with all the elegance of a collapsing building. He tumbled, rolled, crashed—but momentum carried him on.
Gunfire roared back to life.
A bullet tore across his face.
There was a wet, sickening sensation, then agony so sharp it erased sound. His nose vanished in a spray of bone and blood, red splattering across the snow. Bruce screamed, hands flying uselessly to his face, vision blurring with tears and crimson.
Still he crawled.
Another shot clipped his ear, ripping cartilage free. Something small and warm spun away into the dark. Bruce cried out, a broken animal sound, and kept dragging himself forward.
Then his knee exploded.
The impact slammed him flat, pain detonating through his body as his right leg folded the wrong way, nearly torn apart at the joint. He screamed until his voice failed, his massive body crashing into the snow hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
He did not stop.
One hand clamped around Happygun. The other clawed at frozen ground, fingernails tearing, scraping, pulling. Inch by inch, he dragged himself toward the cars.
Bullets ripped into his back.
One found his spine.
The world went numb from the waist down, sensation vanishing like a switch had been thrown. Bruce felt his legs go dead, heavy and useless, but he didn't understand it—not fully—not yet.
He just kept pulling.
At last, somehow, he reached the cars. He hauled his ruined body beneath the nearest one, metal cold against his torn skin. He lay there gasping, blood pouring out of him, pooling dark beneath his chest. Steam rose softly from the snow like his body was already trying to leave.
Gunfire surged closer.
Bruce raised Happygun with shaking arms and fired low, desperate bursts. Bullets tore through legs and feet. Men screamed and collapsed, hands clutching shattered bones. Through the pain, through the terror, Bruce felt a small, terrible flicker of satisfaction.
His breathing slowed, each inhale a struggle. His vision tunneled. He looked down at himself and finally saw the truth.
His right leg hung wrong, barely attached. His face was a ruin—no nose, blood filling his mouth, each breath a drowning. His spine was broken. His legs were gone in every way that mattered.
This is it, he realized quietly. I messed up.
His gaze drifted past the chaos, back to the fuel tank.
Gasoline still flowed, creeping across the frozen ground toward the lighters. The little flames burned on, brave and patient, waiting to touch what they were meant to touch.
Bruce smiled weakly.
At least, he thought he did.
Snow kept falling.
And the night leaned in close, ready to take the last thing he had left to give.
Lying there—broken, bleeding, pinned beneath cold steel—Bruce's thoughts began to drift.
Not in panic.
Not in fear.
But softly, like snow settling after a storm.
He thought of his father first.
A violent man. An angry man. A corrupt man who'd worn his power like a weapon and his temper like a badge. Bruce remembered the night of the drive-by shooting with perfect, terrible clarity—the sound like firecrackers tearing the dark apart, the smell of gunpowder and blood, the way his father's body had crumpled before Bruce could understand what death really meant.
Something had awakened in him that night.
Not hatred.
Protection.
A deep, stubborn need to make sure other people didn't suffer the way he had—alone, confused, helpless.
Then Frank.
Frank appearing out of that darkness like something unreal—steady hands, calm voice, eyes that didn't look away. Frank saving him. Frank giving him a second chance without ever calling it that. Frank never treating him like a burden, a project, or a mistake.
Bruce thought of Frank's parents—Richard and Meredith Armstrong—opening their home without hesitation, feeding him, laughing with him, letting him sit at their table like he belonged there. For the first time in his life, Bruce had known what family felt like.
He smiled faintly.
He remembered school—how hard it had been, how slow he'd felt compared to everyone else. He remembered barely graduating and how proud Frank had looked anyway. He remembered long nights lost in World of Warcraft and Medieval II: Total War, always terrible, always losing, always happy. He remembered road trips with Frank, chasing food challenges across the country, failing constantly and laughing harder every time.
He thought of Amber.
The homeless girl he'd tried to save. The way she'd taken and taken and taken until there was nothing left. He didn't regret it. Not for a second. Trying had mattered.
Then Sarah. Frank's wife. And the kids.
Bruce never really understood marriage, or how children happened, or how Frank had built a life so complete. But he admired it. Deeply. Frank had found something steady and good in the world—and Bruce had been allowed to orbit it, just a little.
Tears slid quietly from Bruce's eyes—not from pain, but gratitude.
His life hadn't been easy. Or graceful. Or impressive.
But it had been real.
And it had been kind.
Gunfire crackled closer. Bruce lifted Happygun one last time, firing weak, defiant bursts toward the shadows. His strength ebbed fast now, consciousness flickering like a dying bulb.
"I-I'm sorry, Frank…" he whispered into the cold. "I-I messed up… b-but I don't regret it. As long as y-you're alive… I-I did okay… r-right?"
Darkness pressed in gently, not cruelly.
Bruce lay still beneath the car, breath shallow, blood pooling warm beneath him. His fingers trembled around Happygun, his last anchor to the world.
Then—
Boots.
Fast. Heavy. Close.
A figure slid beneath the car and dropped beside him.
"Bruce!" Frank's voice cracked, raw with terror. "Jesus Christ, Bruce—stay with me!"
Frank grabbed his vest, hands slick with blood, eyes wide and frantic.
Bruce's eyes snapped open in sudden panic. "N-no—Frank! You h-have to g-get away! The f-fuel tank—it'll e-explode! G-go, p-please!"
Frank shook his head violently. "Never. Never, Bruce. I'm not leaving you."
"We're p-partners…" Bruce gasped. "B-but y-you have S-Sarah… y-your kids… p-please…"
Frank's voice broke completely. "I don't care. I won't let you die alone. I won't."
Bruce stared at him, confused even now. "Y-you have e-everything… w-wife, kids… w-why s-stay?"
Frank leaned closer, forehead nearly touching Bruce's, tears streaking down his face unchecked.
"Because you're my brother," he said softly. "Because you're the purest man I've ever known. The world doesn't deserve you—but I do. I always have."
Bruce's chest hitched.
Slowly, gently, he nodded.
Together, they raised their weapons one final time, firing into the darkness as the gangsters advanced, two men standing against the end.
Then—
The gasoline reached the flames.
Fire raced across the snow in an instant—beautiful, terrifying.
Frank saw it.
He didn't hesitate.
He threw himself over Bruce, wrapping his body around him, shielding him completely as the world turned white.
The explosion tore through the night.
Fire, shrapnel, heat—everything vanished into a roaring inferno. The mansion detonated as hidden stockpiles ignited, a second cataclysm ripping the earth apart. Cars, criminals, wood, stone—erased in a storm of flame.
Frank held Bruce tight.
Bruce's eyes stayed open just long enough to see Frank's face—gentle, calm, full of love.
And in that final instant, Bruce understood.
He had lived.
Not perfectly.
Not gracefully.
But fully.
And that was enough.