After Chile, things didn’t go back to normal. I kept wakin’ up sweaty, thinkin’ I heard that clicking sound. I started runnin’ in the mornings—me, Rocky Marino, runnin’ like some gym rat. My hands wouldn’t stop shakin’ unless they were holdin’ somethin’. A wrench, a bat, a pistol—didn’t matter. I needed to be ready.

I practiced reloading. Fast. Blind. While makin’ dinner. Eddie would’ve laughed. Elijah probably already knew how. Anderson… he wouldn’t have said nothin’.

I got better. Sharper. More aware of where the exits were, how people move when they’re about to snap. I learned how to duck before fists flew, how to watch shadows before they moved. That Talent guy, he wasn’t wrong—I am gettin’ better. Different, too. Not all of it feels good.

The city feels louder now. Brighter. Like it’s tryin’ to distract me from what’s underneath.

But I see it. I see it all.

And I ain’t lookin’ away no more.

The Eschatology job left a mark deeper than any wound. It wasn’t just the bruises or the sleepless nights afterward — it was the weight that settled heavy on my chest. A quiet kind of pressure that doesn’t go away, no matter how much I try to drown it in whiskey or distraction.

I kept to myself for a long time after that. Not because I wanted to, but because I needed space to figure out who I am now, who I’m becoming. The city’s always loud, but I found myself searching for silence — the kind you only get when you run the streets at 3 a.m. or shoot practice rounds into an empty lot under a flickering streetlamp.

Every day, I pushed harder. Early mornings spent running until my legs burned, evenings honing my aim, learning to reload faster, thinking about how I could survive the next contract. This life isn’t for the weak or slow — it demands everything. You learn that quick.

The work changes you. You cross lines you never thought you would, see things that haunt your dreams. Sometimes I wonder if I’m still the same Rocco Marino who just wanted a quiet life with his family, a man who drove a garbage truck and kept his head down.

But that man’s gone. Replaced by someone who’s had to get sharper, colder, ready for anything. The Eschatology dust has settled, sure — but inside me, the fight is far from over. I’m still standing, still moving forward. No turning back now.