The knocking was sharp, precise, and relentless.

Anderson ignored it at first.

He sat on the couch, staring at the dim glow of the TV screen without really watching. The whiskey bottle on the coffee table was half-empty. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors.

But the knocking didn’t stop.

With a sigh, he dragged himself up, running a hand through his hair before heading to the door. The second he cracked it open, he saw her.

Ren.

Without a word, he slammed the door in her face.

There was a pause, then her voice—loud, firm, unbothered.

"Anderson, I know what you want."

His grip on the doorknob tightened. He should’ve ignored her, should’ve let her waste her breath.

But instead, after a long pause, he sighed and pulled the door open just enough to look at her.

He leaned against the frame. "What do I want?"

Ren smirked. "Let me inside, and I’ll tell you."

Anderson studied her for a long moment, then stepped aside. "Make it quick."

She entered without hesitation, her eyes scanning the apartment. 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. No photos, no decoration—nothing personal.

She turned back to him, her expression unreadable.

"I know about your sister, Mia."

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Anderson’s face didn’t change, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

"I know about your struggle for money," she continued, stepping closer. "How you took every job you could just to keep her out of foster care. How you made sure she never wanted for anything. And now?"

She tilted her head, watching his reaction carefully.

"Now you have money. More than you ever could’ve dreamed of. But you can’t even use it."

Anderson’s jaw clenched slightly.

"You have no proof of income. No job history. No legitimate way to explain where it all comes from," she pressed. "You dropped out of high school, and now you’re stuck. No real way forward, no way out. Just keeping your head above water, surviving but never living."

She let that hang in the air before stepping even closer.

"And I know you don’t 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’ve done your research."

His voice was unreadable. Calm. But Ren wasn’t stupid—she saw the flicker of something behind his eyes.

Then, just as quickly, his expression hardened.

"Now get the fuck out of my house."

Ren smiled. She was waiting for that.

"I thought you’d be more reasonable," she mused, shaking her head. "With all the stories I heard from Molly about you, I figured you'd at least listen."

The mention of Molly sent something sharp through Anderson’s spine. His fists curled, his breath slowing.

He moved.

One second, Ren was talking. The next, Anderson was on her, closing the space in an instant.

His voice was low, dangerous. "How dare you—"

Click.

The metallic sound was unmistakable.

Anderson stopped.

Ren had drawn a gun.

Fast. Precise. Steady.

And now it was aimed at his chest.

"Chill out," she said smoothly, her voice as relaxed as ever. "Unless you wanna die in front of your little sister."

Anderson’s breathing slowed, his eyes flicking between her face and the gun.

Ren watched him carefully. Measured.

Then she tilted her head, finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Why shouldn’t I kill you right here and now?"

Anderson didn’t answer. He just stared at her, cold and unreadable.

Ren smirked. "Good. You’re thinking. That’s progress."

She stepped closer, pressing the barrel against his forehead. "I wanted to keep this peaceful," she murmured.

Then, she slapped him.

Anderson’s head barely moved. His breathing stayed even.

But his eyes?

Cold.

Ren exhaled, shaking her head as if disappointed.

"If you don’t back me for what I deserve," she said, her voice calm and deliberate, "I’ll blow your sister’s brains out."

The words cut through the silence like a blade.

Anderson didn’t blink. Didn’t react.

Just stared.

Ren held his gaze for a moment longer. Then she lowered the gun, stepping back.

She turned for the door without another word.

And as she left, Anderson stayed in his chair.

Silent.

Thinking.

And hating.