Okay, so not exactly right now.

Before I set out on this death sentence, I do actually put effort into making myself presentable. I manage to drag myself into the shower, but all that washing myself really does is make my hair fluffy again and help me smell better. It doesn't do much to improve the real issues with my physical appearance, though it does clean out my wounds to an extent, I guess.

When I get out I'm still bleeding. My body is still bruised, and I'm still visibly hungover. My outward appearance has been improved to a small extent, but I'm still covered in noticeable injuries and wearing only a blood covered hoodie—though it's black, so the blood thankfully isn't obvious— and boxers by the time I'm walking out the door. To this very important confrontation with Winter's dad. Because those are the only two articles of clothing I own that haven't been taken over by raccoons.

So, clad in the same clothes I got jumped in this morning, I put on fresh eyeliner and cologne. I attempt to ignore some of the still bleeding wounds and clear bruising all over my body and face, but I'm given physical reminders in the form of pain that are difficult to ignore even if I could keep my gaze away.

There's only so much I can do, but the makeup covers my sleep deprivation at the very least, which I'll take.

By the time I'm done doing everything I possibly can to make myself presentable—to almost no avail, if I'm honest—I do manage to feel a bit better. I probably still look like a homeless person, though.

Then, I'm on my way to the garage.

The ride there is probably the slowest I can ever remember driving. I also can't recall a single time in the last three years where I didn't want to see Vaughn. Not one second, I'm always drawn to that man. No instances come to mind where part of me wasn't a little giddy, even if I was in trouble.

This time is different.

This time, guilt is involved.

This time, Winter almost died.

This time, I really fucked up.

By the time I'm arriving at Vaughn's mechanic shop—Torres Automotive—there is only one vehicle there. This is a bummer because I was half hoping maybe some of his employees would be here by now and there would be some sort of damper between Vaughn and homicide. But I guess not.

I park next to Vaughn's large, dated but sturdy truck. It's solid black with mud on the wheels and underside. Sometimes I wonder how fast I could make a vehicle like that go—one not built for racing by any means, that is. I'm so used to working with newer sports cars but honestly it's fun for me to race in just about anything, I don't care how fast it goes.

I look at my reflection in the rear view mirror one more time. Half of my face is bruising, I have a long but thin gash on my cheekbone, and my makeup is already smudged and fucked up. My hair is also a mess despite having just been brushed. So, basically the only payoff I got from all that effort I put into being presentable was just... smelling good. And not having greasy hair. Aside from that I still look like shit.

Yeah. This is gonna go well.

As I step out of the lemon-colored corvette, I try not to think about how insecure I feel. I try to remind myself that nothing about my appearance will change what happened, that I'm hyper-fixating on my physical state because I always am when Vaughn is concerned. That it doesn't matter, I could be walking in there dressed like a CEO and he'd still hate me.

These reminders don't really help, and I eventually resign myself to just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as I make my way to the building. I lock my car behind myself, too deep in thought to look as I do so.

I've been here before, when I've had to drop Winter off, but I've never gone inside. I've never actually entered Vaughn's shop, so this is completely new to me. The gravel parking lot that parts off into a short trail, which then becomes concrete. Then, the garage, which is closed at the moment. I have to go through the entrance on the side, which I find is unlocked. I can't help but feel slightly let down, hoping I'd hit a big obstacle and have to abort mission.

I open it, knocking against the doorframe and glancing around the small room I end up in. The lighting is low, with a tile floor and solid off white walls, and the only furniture inside are some couches and a register. A doorway off to the side appears to lead into the actual garage, and there's light coming from in there. I also hear some vague, distant clanging, as well as rock music.

I take a deep breath.

"Mr. Torres!" I call, making a point not to call him by his first name because I'm trying to make a good impression. Even though it's a little late for that.

I step into the doorway, glancing around the garage and just seeing cars everywhere, which I guess I should've expected. The music doesn't stop, so I take a step forward onto the smooth concrete of the shop floor. Something about crossing the threshold feels final, and I close my eyes for a second.

Des, calm down. You've stared down the barrel of a gun more times than you can count. You've been beaten within an inch of your life, again, more times than you can count. You've been through way fucking worse than a conversation. It isn't a big deal, you got this. It's just Vaughn. Just Winter's dad. Just Cavanaugh Torres—

Just Cavanaugh Torres, clad in jeans and no shirt, covered in sweat as he lays under a vehicle that is currently in pieces, suspended up on some kind of lift. I practically feel my heart stop, standing in the middle of the room like a deer in headlights as I try to regulate my breathing.

No way I can hold a conversation with him dressed in such little clothing. Sure, I'm only in a hoodie and boxers, but the hoodie is like a 5XL and it covers enough. Whatever, he hasn't even noticed me anyway, smudges of oil and grease and dirt all over him. How long ago did he get here? His shop doesn't even open for like—

Wait. It's almost 8 AM, actually. He should be opening in only a few minutes, why is it so empty in here? Is he closed for the day? Is it... oh no, did I miss another holiday? Is it Thanksgiving?

But even if that's the case... why is he here on his day off?

I decide to stop worrying about trivial things I only care about at the moment because I'm stalling. He still hasn't noticed me, and I need to make my presence known, but it's too loud for him to hear me. I don't want to scare him by shaking him or something, though. I don't want to touch him at all, that's a slippery slope. I glance around the garage for a moment before spotting a speaker on a workbench. That seems to be where the music is coming from.

Whatever. He already hates me, I doubt shutting off his music will make it much worse. I need to make my presence known somehow, and the only way I can be louder than this music without closing the distance between us would be if I yelled. I can't even really yell though, my voice is so quiet and low it takes a lot of effort. I'd probably have to sing to reach that volume, actually, because that's always been different for some reason.

Des, stop distracting yourself. Just shut the fucking music off.

I sigh, closing the distance between myself and the speaker in just a few strides. Then, I unplug it from the wall in one smooth motion. It immediately cuts out, jarringly sudden. So abrupt the silence almost feels louder. I swear I hear a bass drop or something, it just throws me off.

Within a millisecond, I feel a light being pointed in my direction. I squint against it, ignoring the spark of adrenaline I feel as I'm momentarily reminded of the police, holding up my hand to block it until Vaughn finally takes the flashlight out of his mouth, eyes narrowing on me as recognition crosses his features.

He's up in an instant.

My entire body tenses.

I watch the man rise from the floor, shutting off the flashlight and tossing it to the side. Now that I don't have light shining in my eyes, I can properly take in the man's expression—his reaction to my company.

Which is unsurprisingly livid.

He doesn't even say anything. Just gets to a standing position, discards his flashlight on a pile of tarp, and begins walking toward me at a steady pace. The fire in his eyes is only barely contained, jaw clenched, and the man is unbearably imposing long before he even reaches me.

Then... he reaches me.

"Leave."

He doesn't waste a second. He doesn't give me the slightest opportunity to state my business or anything. Nope, he just glares down at me like I'm the scum of the earth, and orders me to go. All I can do is look up at him with wide eyes, tense, trying not to focus on the way the large man towers over me.

Is Winter even aware of how terrifying her dad is? I don't think so. If she were, I highly doubt she would've encouraged this. I'm probably gonna shit my pants by the time it's over. What on earth made me think for even a second that he'd give me a chance?

"I wanted to—"

"Go home."

Seriously, why did I think this would work? No fucking clue, I must've been in an especially hopeful mood or something. Honestly, though, I don't think I ever genuinely believed any progress would come from this interaction.

I'm just doing it for Winter. I have to at least try, I owe her that much.

His voice is low when he speaks, contours of his face cast in shadow. The dim lighting makes everything feel more intense, and I can't even stop myself from fidgeting a bit. It doesn't take long before I can't make eye contact anymore.

I stare at the ground. I count the cracks in the chipped paint as I try to come up with something, anything that might make him give me a chance just to speak. Just to finish my sentence.

"I need to talk to you first," I tell him, and I don't hear a response. I don't dare glance up, though. I'll take what I can get. I immediately continue. "About last night. And Winter—"

The world is a blur.

So much for finishing my sentence, because her name barely even leaves my mouth before I feel myself being grabbed by the hoodie and yanked forward. Everything spins around me as this happens, and before I know it Vaughn has my hoodie clenched in his fist, now much closer than before. He's glaring down at me with rage in his eyes, and his face is right there.

Just like that, I forget everything I was about to say. Everything I've ever known throughout my entire life. What my name is. I've never seen him so close up before.

I've also never seen him so mad at me, which is saying something.

"Don't say her name." He growls, voice low, eyes flashing. I can't remember how to blink. There's pure venom in Vaughn's voice, explosive fury in his eyes, like he's barely restraining himself from pummeling me into the ground. "Don't even think about her. You'll never see us again if you know what's good for you. Is that clear, Desmond?"

It is not clear. Nothing is clear right now except the sharp lines of Vaughn's face and the low drawl of his voice. The sheer size of this man, over half a foot taller than me and much, much bigger.

I don't remember English, or I would respond.