Malcolm Bright

After seeing Jack's post, reading a detailed recounting of a nightmare that still plays out some nights as he sleeps, Jeff kind of wants to cry.

Which is stupid. He shouldn't cry. He needs to stop being such a fucking baby. Instead, Jeff just kind of punches his pillow a few times (because anger's, like, manly and acceptable), but it's half-hearted and doesn't make him feel any better.

He checks his phone again. Tim's still leaving him on read, and he doesn't know if the guy's hurt or pissed at him or what. He should probably leave him alone and give him his space, instead of being clingy and annoying.

That resolution doesn't last too long. He's out of coke (apparently his dealer's dealing with supply chain issues or some bullshit), and he's not in the mood to drink, and he definitely doesn't want to go out and busk while the memories of getting stabbed to death out in public are so fresh on his mind.

So he puts on something clean and grabs the promised leftover stuffing from last night's escapades (haphazardly wrapped in foil), and heads on over to the ADI apartment complex, making a beeline for B1.

He looks utterly miserable as he knocks on the door. But if his eyes look a little red and his cheeks and nose look a little flushed, he'll just say it's because of the cold weather, and not because he's being a big emotional baby who might've had some sniffles somewhere between Point A and Point B. He's fine. He's an adult.