I wake up to drawers sliding shut and something metallic clinking against wood.
Keys.
Someone trying to be quiet and doing a bad job at it.
Light cuts through the blinds, thin and sharp. My head feels heavy, but not bad. Just… new place heavy.
"Mierda," Benny whispers. "Sorry, primo. Didn't mean to wake you."
I roll onto my back. "You good. I was already half-awake."
He steps out of his room, boots on, shirt tucked in, hair still a little wild. He stops when he really looks at me.
"…Damn," he says. "You snore like an old man now?"
"Shut up," I mumble. "You still wake up early for no reason."
"For work, cabrón." He grabs his keys, then pauses. "Actually—"
Here it comes.
"I was thinking," he says, leaning against the counter. "Shop could use another guy. My boss ain't an asshole, just picky. If you want, I can put your name in."
I sit up, rubbing my face. "You sure?"
"Yeah," he says. "You know your shit. And you're family."
I nod. "Thanks, Benny. De verdad."
He waves it off. "We'll talk later. You hungry?"
"Always been."
He laughs and turns to the stove, starts moving like muscle memory never left him. Eggs. Pan. Coffee already going.
"You still drink it black?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You Crazy man."
He slides a mug toward me anyway.
The apartment's small but warm. One bedroom, bathroom that probably hates humidity, living room pretending it's a kitchen.
But it feels… safe.
Benny breaks the quiet first.
"So," he says, not looking at me. "What really went down in San Fierro?"
I stare into the coffee.
"Only thing your dad told me," he continues, "was that you got into some deep mierda and needed out. That's it."
I exhale slowly.
"There was a guy," I say. "Pablo."
Benny's shoulders tense.
"He tried to rape Rosa."
The pan sizzles harder. Benny turns, eyes sharp.
"…Hijo de Puta."
"He didn't get far," I say. "But yeah. Me and the boys—"
"You handled it," Benny cuts in.
I nod.
He sets the plates down, jaw tight. "Good."
We sit. Eat.
"Anyone chasing you?" he asks.
"Not yet."
He snorts. "They always 'not yet.'"
He leans back, serious now. "Listen, primo. Los Santos ain't San Fierro. This city eats people."
"Vagos. Ballas. Families," he counts on his fingers. "Everybody strapped. Everybody claiming something."
He looks straight at me. "You packing?"
I lift my shirt just enough.
"Bien," he says, then reaches under the counter and pulls his own. "Rule number two. Don't leave home without it."
"Not looking for problems."
"Good," he says. "But if they find you? You better be ready."
We finish eating.
Benny grabs his jacket, heads for the door, then stops. Turns back.
"…I'm glad you're here, Beto," he says, quieter. "This place ain't easy. But you ain't alone."
I nod. "Thanks, primo."
He smirks. "Now don't die on me, yeah?"
"No promises."
He laughs, steps out, and the door closes behind him—leaving the city humming on the other side.
---
The apartment feels different the second he's gone.
Not empty—just… quiet in a way that doesn't belong to me.
I sit on the couch for a while, phone in my hand, screen dark. My bag's still by the wall. Shoes kicked off near the door.
The gun's weight presses against my ribs even when I'm not thinking about it.
Los Santos outside the window doesn't care. Cars pass. Someone laughs down the block. A siren wails far enough away to be background noise.
First day.
I should feel something bigger.
Fear.
Excitement. Relief.
Mostly I just feel tired.
I stand, stretch my shoulders, and head for the bathroom.
The shower kicks on loud, pipes complaining like they're pissed I'm awake. I let the water get hot, step under it, close my eyes.
Steam fills the room quick.
San Fierro flashes through my head uninvited—wet streets, fog, Pablo's mouth moving, saying shit he shouldn't have said.
I push it down.
Not now.
My phone buzzes on the sink.
I ignore it.
Buzzes again.
I sigh, reach out, answer without looking.
"Yeah?"
"Beto?"
Rosita.
I lean my head back against the tile.
"Hey," I say.
"You okay?" she asks immediately. No hello. Straight to it.
"I'm fine," I say. "I made it."
"To Los Santos?"
"Yeah."
She exhales, slow and shaky. "It's different?"
"Very," I say. "Bigger. Louder. Smells like shit and the ocean at the same time."
She lets out a weak laugh, then goes quiet.
"I didn't sleep," she admits.
I glance at the fogged mirror. "You should."
"I know."
I tell her about the drive. About the forests finally giving up, about the sun hitting the cliffs, about seeing the ocean open up like the world remembered it was supposed to be pretty sometimes.
"I'm staying with Cousin Benny," I say. "He's got a Nice place."
Another pause.
Then her voice drops. "I'm sorry."
Here it comes.
"You don't—"
"I ruined everything," she says, words tumbling out now. "You didn't have to leave. You didn't have to do that."
I turn the water colder without thinking.
"Rosa," I say firmly. "Stop."
She sniffles. "If it wasn't for me—"
"This isn't on you," I cut in. "Don't make it that."
Silence.
Then crying. Quiet, ugly, honest.
I close my eyes.
"You're my sister," I say. "That's it. I don't regret anything."
She breathes, tries to steady herself.
"I just don't want them to hurt you," she whispers.
"They won't," I say, even if I don't know that for sure.
I check the time again.
"You're gonna be late," I say. "Go get ready."
She hesitates. "You promise you'll come back?"
I don't answer right away.
"Soon," I say finally.
It's enough.
When the call ends, I stand there until the water goes lukewarm.
I dry off, pull on my clothes—old jeans, white shirt, worn shoes. Nothing flashy. Nothing memorable.
I comb my hair back with my fingers, catch my reflection in the mirror.
I look older.
Not tougher. Just… worn around the edges.
I sit on the couch, lace my shoes, and check my bank app.
$380.
That's it.
Rent doesn't exist yet, but food does. Gas does. Life does.
I need money.
I grab the spare keys Benny left, lock up, and step outside.
Summer heat hits immediately.
The street smells like trash, hot asphalt, and someone grilling something questionable a few houses down.
The Vamos waits where I left her.
I slide in, turn the key, engine coughs then settles. Gas needle's low.
"Mierda," I mutter.
I pull out, drive aimlessly at first, just following signs until I spot a gas station tucked between a liquor store and a closed-down auto parts place.
I pull in, park crooked, step out.
The pump clicks into place. Numbers start spinning way faster than I like.
The numbers start climbing way too fast.
"Great," I mutter under my breath.
I lean against the Vamos, phone in my hand, not even unlocking it.
Just something to stare at. The city hums around me.
traffic rolling past, bass thumping from a car stopped at the light, a motorcycle ripping by like it's mad at the world.
I hear voices before I pay attention to them.
Not yelling. Not yet.
That tight, clipped tone people use when they're trying to keep something from boiling over.
I don't look right away. You learn that early.
Don't stare. Don't invite shit.
But then I hear her.
"I told you I'm not like those girls."
I glance over without moving my head much.
They're near the convenience store entrance. She's young — blonde, shoulder-length hair, brown overcoat that looks borrowed or bought cheap, skirt a little too thin.
She keeps shifting her weight, like she's ready to bolt.
The guy's older. Mid-Thirties, easy. Clean clothes, watch on his wrist, confidence like it's glued to him.
He's standing too close.
He laughs, sharp and dismissive. "Yeah? That's what they all say."
I look back at the pump.
Not my business.
First day in Los Santos. Benny literally warned me this morning.
City eats people who get involved.
The numbers keep spinning.
"I'm serious," she says. "I'm not going home with you."
I hear the edge now. The crack starting.
"Bitch," the guy says quietly, dangerously, "don't start acting brand new on me."
I glance again.
His hand closes around her arm.
She stiffens. "Let go."
Something tightens in my chest. Not adrenaline. Memory.
Rosa.
The pump clicks once, like it's warning me.
I tell myself someone else will step in. Someone closer. Someone without baggage.
She pulls her arm back. "I said let go of me."
People are watching now. Nobody's moving.
I exhale through my nose.
"Mierda!" I shout to myself.
I push off the car and walk over.
"Hey," I say, loud enough to cut through. "She told you to back off."
The guy turns, eyes sliding over me like he's already decided I'm not a problem.
"This don't concern you, ese." he says.
"She looks like it made it my concern."
He scoffs. "You trying to be a hero or something?"
I shrug. "Just telling you to let her go."
His jaw tightens. He drops her arm — but only to slide his hand under his shirt. Just enough of a flash.
The girl freezes.
I don't reach. Don't flinch.
"Alright," I say calmly. "Then we're clear."
I lift my own shirt just enough. Same language.
His eyes flick down. Back up. Around.
The confidence drains out of him fast, like air from a punctured tire.
He clicks his tongue, annoyed more than scared. "Fuckin' waste of My time."
He points at her. "You ain't worth it."
Then at me. "And you— mind your business."
He storms to his Granger, peels out of the lot like noise might give him the last word.
Silence drops heavy after.
Nobody claps. Nobody says shit.
The girl stands there for a second, arms wrapped around herself like she just remembered she has a body again.
I turn back toward the pump. Let the last dollars drain into the tank.
Behind me, I hear her footsteps hesitate, then move closer.
"Hey," she says, voice still shaky. "Thank you."
I glance over. "You okay?"
She nods, but it's delayed. "Yeah. I think so."
She wipes at her face, clearly annoyed at herself for it. "Sorry. That was… embarrassing."
"It wasn't," I say. Then soften it. "You didn't do anything wrong."
She studies me for a second, like she's trying to understand why I stepped in.
"You didn't have to do that," she says.
"I know."
That seems to throw her off more than gratitude would've.
We stand there a moment. The pump clicks off. Somewhere inside the store, a microwave beeps.
She glances toward the street where the truck disappeared. "He's not coming back, right?"
"No," I say. "Guys like that don't like witnesses."
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Great."
She shoves her hands into her coat pockets.
"Guess I owe you."
"You don't."
Another pause. Not awkward. Just… space.
"You new around here?" she asks.
"Is it that obvious?"
She smiles a little. "You still look surprised when people act like assholes."
I snort quietly. "Give it time."
She hesitates, then says, "I'm Charlie."
I don't give my name.
She notices. Doesn't press.
"I don't usually—" she starts, then stops. "Never mind."
I cap the tank and step back toward my car.
She watches me go, then suddenly, "Wait."
I stop with my hand on the door.
She walks over, nervous now, like she didn't plan this far.
"Look," she says, lowering her voice. "I'm not asking for anything. I just— I don't really know anyone out here either."
That lands harder than it should.
She digs into her bag, pulls out a pen and a used napkin from the store. The pen doesn't work at first.
She shakes it, muttering, then scribbles fast once it does.
"If you ever need directions," she says, tearing the napkin, "or someone to tell you where not to go… call me. Or don't. Whatever."
She hesitates before holding it out.
I take it.
"Claro," I say.
Her shoulders drop, relief creeping in. "Drive safe."
"You too."
I get in the car and pull out of the lot slow, eyes on the road.
In the mirror, she's still standing there, arms crossed, watching traffic like she's grounding herself in it.
First day in Los Santos.