Thankfully, before I could dwell on that dreadful topic for too long, Michael spoke up.
"So," he said, tossing a twig into the flames, "anyone else still seeing dead Cadets from the Night Sanctuary whenever they close their eyes, or is that just me?"
Vince grunted. "Just you."
"That was too fast," Michael said, narrowing his eyes. "You didn't even think about it."
"Didn't need to," Vince dismissively waved a hand. "What you're describing is survivor's guilt. And it's overrated. Been there, done that."
Michael tilted his head at that. "I've been wondering this for a while now — what kind of life did you even live, Vince? You sound like you've struggled a lot… yet somehow, you still sound well-off."
"Well-off?" Vince scoffed like he was offended. "Bitch, I'm filthy rich. Richer than half the lowborn nobles out there. And before you ask, yes, I'm self-made."
"Self-made?" Michael repeated skeptically.
Vince squinted. "What, you don't believe me?"
