H E A V Y S T O R M

[tysonhatch]

Is that TYSON 'TY' HATCH? I heard the FORTY ONE year old works as an ER DOCTOR. Which makes sense, seeing how they are SELF-SUFFICIENT, but can also be CYNICAL. Do they know what’s going on in the city? I heard they are a DIRTY CIVILIAN with ties to NO ONE.

S T A T S

FULL NAME: Tyson Joseph Hatch NICKNAME(S): Ty, Doc

OCCUPATION: ER Doctor at Silverlake General Hospital

GENDER: Cis Man PRONOUNS: He/Him NATIONALITY: American ETHNICITY: White

BIRTH PLACE: Salt Lake City, Utah HOMETOWN: North Salt Lake, Utah EDUCATION LEVEL: Doctorate in Medicine FATHER:  TBN MOTHER: TBN SIBLING(S): Taylor Schwarz, Tommy Hatch, Tara Hatch, TBN, TBN CHILDREN: none that he knows of PET(S): N/A

B I O G R A P H Y

Tyson Hatch never felt at home in the world he was born into. Raised in a strict Mormon household in Utah, he spent his childhood suffocating under the weight of his family’s expectations. As the eldest of five, he was supposed to set the example, but the more he watched his father repress his own desires and pass that burden down to his children, the more Tyson knew he had to escape.

At eighteen, he took the only way out he could see: the United States Marine Corps. He enlisted, leaving his siblings behind without warning until the day he shipped off to boot camp. It was the coward’s way out, and he knew it, but he also knew if he hesitated, he might never leave at all.

His time as a Navy corpsman and war stripped him of whatever faith he had left—faith in God, faith in his country, faith in the so-called righteousness of their cause. He saw firsthand how war was nothing more than a front for power, a means to an end for men who would never set foot on the battlefield. He lost belief in the system but gained something else: the ability to think on his feet, improvise in chaos, and break the rules when necessary to save lives.

The problem was, after years of thriving in high-pressure environments, civilian life felt unbearable. The quiet left too much room for his thoughts—about the war, about his childhood, about the siblings he abandoned. To drown it out, he chased the next best thing: the chaos of the emergency room. He worked his way through medical school, eventually becoming an ER doctor in one of the busiest hospitals in Los Angeles.

Somewhere along the way, he reconnected with two of his younger siblings, Taylor and Tommy, and through them, he became aware of the Outlaws MC. It didn’t take long for others in LA’s criminal underworld to learn his name. He wasn’t loyal to any one faction, but he was useful—someone you could call when your own medics were in over their heads. Tyson has been pulled out of bed more times than he can count to perform off-the-record field surgeries on men who couldn’t risk a hospital visit. In those circles, he’s known simply as Doc—a man who fixes people up, no questions asked.

Calm under pressure, Tyson carries himself with a quiet confidence, never flinching in the face of blood, violence, or impossible odds. His moral code isn’t easily understood by others, but it exists—sharp-edged and unwavering. He might not believe in God anymore, but there are things he still believes in: survival, the people he chooses to protect, and the knowledge that sometimes, the only way to save a life is to break every rule in the book.

H E A D C A N N O N S:

Tyson never planned on becoming a doctor after he left the corp—he just knew he needed chaos to function, and the ER was the closest thing to a war zone without a uniform.

He doesn’t pray anymore, but sometimes, in the middle of a bloody trauma or a dimly lit alley, he catches himself whispering to someone who isn’t listening.

He smokes like a man trying to outpace his own thoughts, each cigarette just another excuse to step outside and breathe.

He tells himself he’s not part of the criminal underworld, that he’s just a doctor who patches people up, but when his phone buzzes at 3 AM with a request to stitch up a gunshot wound off the record, he never says no.

Tyson left home at eighteen and never looked back, but every now and then, he catches a hymn on the radio and feels a pang of something he doesn’t want to name.

W A N T E D C O N N E C T I O N S H E R E

[tomhatch]

Tommy looked down at his shoes with a sad chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, well -- I didn't come for them." If he had, he would have been worse off than he already was. The fact that they'd even looked in his direction? It was more of a 'win' in his mind than he'd be willing to admit, and even then he found his heart breaking more and more by the moment. Or, perhaps that was simply the shakes rattling through his chest now.

Still, he was relieved when Tyson offered to step out with him for a moment -- not just because of the impending reprieve from the suffocating air of the room, but because it was a small olive branch extended. A sign that his older brother wasn't resentful toward him. Or, at least, wasn't resentful enough to snub him at their sister's funeral. His lips curled into a slight grin, nodding as he stepped out to follow the male. "Think I can manage that."

Once they'd stepped outside, Tommy wasted no time in plucking a Marlboro from his pack as they walked, sticking it behind his ear. "Holy shit." He mumbled as they made their way towards his car, paranoidly looking over his shoulder as if his mother was about to burst through the front doors of the church to admonish them..

"Can I -- I wanted to ask..." Tommy started softly, opening up the passenger side door to his truck. He pulled out an unopened bag of chips, shakily peeling it apart without meeting Tyson's gaze. "Was Tara's funeral like this, too?" He'd been barred from entering all those years ago, the blame placed heavily on him despite his younger sister's death being ruled an overdose, nothing truly tangible that would warrant any real blame against him -- other than their claim of him being a terrible influence (which, in fairness, he was). Only a weeks later was he booked for possession and intent to distribute. He wondered if this had been the expected execution, given how the last funeral had gone.

[tysonhatch]

Tyson leaned against the side of the truck, shoulder pressed to metal that radiated heat, but it still felt better than the false warmth waiting inside. At least out here, the air didn’t pretend to care. It just existed. Heavy. Honest. Tommy’s question hit like a slow-moving train. Not sudden, but there was no bracing for the weight behind it. He didn’t answer right away—just lit his cigarette with a drag that trembled slightly at the start but steadied as he exhaled. The silence stretched out between them, and for a minute, it was like they were kids again, hiding from the world on the back porch with their secrets pressed tight to their ribs.

Then—quiet, rough—he spoke. “Yeah,” Tyson said, not looking at him. “It was like this.” A beat passed. Then two. The sound of a passing car, a distant bird. “Worse, maybe.” He glanced at Tommy, just for a second. Enough to register the guilt practically radiating off him. Enough to feel it gnaw at his own chest even if he didn’t know why it was there. “She was the golden one, right? Got straight A’s. Never talked back. Smiled through every Sunday sermon even when she hated the music. So when she—when it happened—” He cut himself off, sucked in another drag like it could keep the emotion from slipping through his teeth. “They were shocked. Blindsided. Couldn’t wrap their heads around it, so they built this version of her that made more sense. Said she was tired. Stressed. Got caught up in the wrong crowd. Anything but the truth, because the truth was too messy for them to understand. Too messy to fit inside a nice little eulogy with perfectly folded programs.”

He spat smoke out the side of his mouth and shook his head. His voice was rough but steady. “Had some cousin play piano and sing some song that Tara would’ve rolled her eyes at.” He exhaled hard. “They didn’t know her. Not really.” He fell quiet for a moment, jaw clenched. They didn't really know any of their kids, it seemed. “She wasn’t some tragic cautionary tale. She was real. Messy and funny and smart as hell. She didn’t deserve to be rewritten just because our parents couldn’t deal with the cracks in the frame.”

Finally, he turned to look at his brother—really looked at him this time. Saw the nervous fingers. The shadows under his eyes. The bags of guilt he wore like armor. “You should’ve been there,” Tyson said, quieter. “Not for them. For her. You were her favorite.” And he hated his parents for keeping him from it every day since.

Another silence stretched out, and Tyson ran a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t know how to protect her. Not then. And I sure as hell didn’t know how to protect Taylor either. And for fuck's sake I don't even know what to do with you. Just promise me I'm not gonna have to attend another funeral." The fact that he hadn't seen Tommy since that night left him with a gordian knot of worry and fear sitting deep in his chest, and every time his phone rang late at night, it fluttered. He thought this would be the call, telling him something had happened to Tommy, too. Something of his own making.

[peytonhayes]

Peyton's gaze flicked towards him as their fingers brushed, allowing the moment to hang in the air before she let it pass and focused back on the road. They had an history and the years had done little to make her forget when brief moments like this surfaced. She tipped the cigarette out the window and allowed the exhale to wash away any tension that lingered in her body.

Easier said than done. The nerves crept up when they pulled in and she immediately itched for another smoke but decided to hold back. She didn't need to walk in smelling like an ashtray and risk bringing more unwanted attention her way.

"Bolting, huh? Then you should take these." She placed her keys in his hand so he could have them in his pocket. Peyton wouldn't bat an eye if he took her truck for a quick escape and got the hell out of dodge. It was a run down truck that once belonged to her dad, and she'd been looking for an excuse to get a new one.

The temple felt suffocating the moment she entered. Its overarching cathedral stood tall, peering down judgementally, though she soon realized that it wasn't so much the building as the pointed gazes. It was evident that she stood out like a thumb. While most looked put together with fresh ironed suits, perfectly pined back hair and freshly manicured nails— she was the complete opposite. Her hair was finger combed, the stench of nicotine clung to her, and the dress still had wrinkles from the last funeral she'd worn it at.

Her gaze met his mothers and Peyton stood taller but fell a step behind Tyson. He was strong enough to stand on his own, she knew that even if he didn't.

Her hand, however, slid into his like an act of rebellion. She knew when someone looked down at her from the moment they laid eyes on her, and it was clear that his mother would have wished anyone else be at his side.

The tightness of her fingers was a reminder that she was still here while his mother approached. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. A silent promise to stand at his side. She wasn't here to carry him through but to merely be an anchor to hold him steady and remind him of what was real within the orchestrated show his mother had set up. "Miss Hatch. My deepest condolences." she muttered softly, though her stance remained as stiff and cold— a stark contraction to the warm honey drenched tone which she used.

[tysonhatch]

The hallway smelled like lilies and floor wax, and Tyson had never wanted a cigarette more in his life, and regretted not smoking the one he took in the car. Not because he was craving the nicotine—though he was, always—but because it would’ve given him something to do. Something other than standing here in a goddamn starched shirt while the soft murmur of fake condolences and backhanded remarks filled the space like fog. The kind of noise that made your skin itch. The kind of noise you couldn't block out.

He hadn’t spoken much on the drive over, and even less once they arrived. He’d taken her keys without argument, sliding them into his pocket without looking down. Just a small nod. An unspoken thank you that probably weighed more than most of the bullshit 'I'm sorry for your loss' statements he’d been hearing all week.

The temple loomed above them like it always had—this grand monument to perfection, to performance. Everything felt too clean, too quiet, too controlled. And Peyton? Peyton didn’t belong here, not in the eyes of the congregation. She didn’t look polished, didn’t sound rehearsed, didn’t bow her head like she owed someone her grief. That’s what made her the only real thing in the building. When her hand slipped into his, he didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. His fingers curled around hers with an unconscious ease, grounding. A small act of rebellion, maybe, but also something else. Something older. A tether he didn’t realize he needed until he had it.

And then she was there—his mother. Hair so tight it looked like it hurt, lips pressed into a line that could cut glass. She didn’t even blink at the sight of Peyton beside him. Just stared like she'd seen a smudge on a window that wouldn’t come off. That same polished judgment Tyson had grown up under like a microscope lens. Peyton offered her condolences, all stiff grace and sharp edges, and for a moment, Tyson felt like he was watching two snakes circle each other in the grass. His mother didn’t respond. Not directly. Just looked her up and down like she was cataloging every imperfection.

“I’m sure Taylor would be grateful for your presence,” his mother said finally, voice honeyed with poison. “Such… loyalty.” Her gaze flicked back to Tyson like she was trying to remind him of something. Of the type of woman he was supposed to bring to an event like this. Of the way she’d raised him to chase appearances instead of people.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go of Peyton’s hand. “Taylor didn’t give a shit about appearances,” he said flatly. “And she hated this suit. Said it made me look like a Mormon FBI agent.” There was a flicker—just a second—of something cracking in his mother’s expression. Not grief. Not even guilt. Just the kind of annoyance that came when her perfectly orchestrated image took a hit.

He let it hang. He let it burn. Then he guided Peyton past her and into the chapel, his hand still in hers, his shoulders still rigid, but his spine straight. The room felt like a tomb and a stage all at once, but with her next to him, he could almost pretend it didn’t feel like walking into a noose. "That went better than I expected." he tried his hand at a joke, "But I still wouldn't blame you if you wanted to cut and run. Now's your last chance before the service begins."

[tysonhatch]

[ 💢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho have they never forgiven and never will ?

His father.

There’s no hesitation in that answer—not even a flicker of doubt. Tyson might not say it out loud, might never give anyone the satisfaction of hearing those words, but it’s a truth etched into him like scar tissue. Not just for the religion forced down his throat, or the oppression that came with the commandments, or the fear of God that lived in every room of that house—but for the silence. For the way his father watched it all happen and still believed himself righteous.

It’s not just about what was done to Tyson. It’s what was done to Taylor. To Tommy. The way their father broke all three of them differently, and then had the gall to preach about forgiveness. The way he clung to his image of moral superiority while letting his children rot under the weight of his expectations.

Tyson left the house, the church, the whole damn state trying to escape it. But the damage followed him. He still hears the voice in his head telling him he’s wrong, that he’s weak, that he’s lost. He still feels the need to prove he’s not his father—and some nights, often after a particularly rough conversation with Tommy, he still wonders if it’s already too late.

He’ll never forgive him. Not for what he did. Not for what he didn’t do. Not for the hollow kind of love that came with rules and punishments and conditions.

[tysonhatch]

🩸

is there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ?

Yes—Taylor was the thing that broke him.

Tyson’s whole life has been built around this fragile illusion that he can carry the weight, that he can outrun the damage by running toward the fire. But Taylor? She was the tether. The proof that he hadn’t failed completely. That despite walking away, despite leaving her behind in that house, she’d made it out too. She was loud, sharp, fiercely independent—everything he hoped surviving could look like. And now she’s gone.

Not to war, not to addiction, not even to something senseless like an accident. She was targeted. Executed. And he had to walk into that morgue, identify her body, see the back of her head blown out by someone else’s decision. That’s not the kind of thing you come back from. That’s not grief—it’s a fracture. Deep and permanent.

Tommy, too, holds that same dangerous potential. For all the chaos, for all the mess, he’s still Tyson’s kid brother. The one he left. The one he still tries to shield even now, even when Tommy pushes every damn boundary. If he lost Tommy too? That would be it. He’d have no one left from before. No one who shared the same battleground—home. His youngest sister is just too much like their parents to share that same, built in the trenches, type of relationship he had with Taylor and Tommy.

Tyson doesn’t talk about love, but that’s what it is. Fierce, quiet, bruised love for his siblings. The kind that kept him alive in the desert. The kind that kept him upright in the ER. The kind that convinced him, even on his worst days, that maybe there was still something worth protecting.

So yes—losing Taylor broke him. Losing Tommy would obliterate whatever pieces are left. Because if they both go, then there’s no one left who remembers who he was before the blood, the betrayal, the burnout. No one left to keep him human.

[tysonhatch]

🍻

what kind of drunk are they ?

Tyson is the kind of drunk who tries to stay composed until it’s clear he can’t.

Early in the night, he’s quiet—withdrawn. Drinks slow, measured, like he’s trying to keep control. He doesn’t get loud, doesn’t stumble, doesn’t draw attention. But the more he drinks, the more that tight grip he keeps on himself starts to loosen. The edges soften. His voice gets rougher, not louder—words a little slurred, a little too honest. His pain seeps out sideways in dry, sardonic remarks, in little confessions that slip through cracks he normally keeps sealed shut.

He’s not aggressive—not unless he feels cornered—but he can get reckless. A dangerous kind of calm. The kind where he might get up, disappear, find himself in places he shouldn’t be. Where the weight of everything he’s carrying feels just light enough to do something stupid. Not attention-seeking, just… numb. Searching for something to cut through the noise.

When he drinks past the tipping point, he can swing between hyper-vigilance and complete disassociation. Sometimes he’s trying to solve problems that aren’t his. Sometimes he’s looking to pick a fight with his past, in whatever form it takes.

But the worst kind of drunk Tyson is? The kind that happens alone. Bottle on the counter. Silence in the room. That’s the version no one sees—the one where the past comes knocking and he lets it in without a fight.

[tysonhatch]

who taught them what love is ? did it hurt ?

No one taught Tyson what love is. Not properly. Not in the way kids are supposed to learn it—in the soft ways, the safe ways, the everyday reassurances. What he got was duty. Expectation. A warped version of love wrapped in obedience and silence. His parents dressed it up like righteousness—God’s love, family values, do as we say because we care. But it was rigid. Conditional. Fragile in all the wrong places. One wrong move and the warmth disappeared, replaced by scripture and shame.

So yeah—it hurt.

It hurt when they praised him in front of the church but ignored the quiet cracking happening behind closed doors. It hurt when he left. When he packed a bag at eighteen and didn’t look back until the Corps had hardened every soft edge he had left.

But then—somewhere out there, in the field, or in the chaos of a trauma bay—he started learning love on his own terms. Quiet moments between medics in blood-stained fatigues. The way his hands moved on broken bodies, trying to keep the pieces together. That was a kind of love, wasn’t it? The desperate kind. The kind that said stay when the world screamed go. It wasn’t gentle, but it was real.

Peyton was part of that understanding. Even though they weren’t together anymore, she had always been a constant. When her father collapsed, Tyson showed up—no hesitation and tried to save him. And now, after Taylor’s murder, she had returned that without needing a single word of explanation. No expectations. No judgment. Just presence. Just care. That was love, at least in the language he understood.

[tysonhatch]

⛈️

Is there a pain they refuse to heal from?

Tyson carries a pain so embedded in his core that he’s stopped recognizing it as pain—it’s just there, like scar tissue he’s convinced himself is part of the architecture. The kind of pain that doesn’t scream but hums low and constant, like background radiation. And it's this: the pain of abandonment, and the belief that love is conditional—earned, never given.

He walked away from his family young, convinced it was the only way to survive. His childhood under a suffocating, hyper-religious roof left him with no room to breathe, no space to question, no option but to flee. But even as he left, there was his younger siblings still stuck in that house—and that’s where the real wound formed. Because no matter how much he tells himself he had to go, part of him has never forgiven himself for leaving them behind.

He made it out. And in ways, both literal and metaphorical some of them didn’t. And while he reconnected later, the years lost are something he can never get back. And now? Tara died of an overdose, Tommy is struggling with his addictions, Taylor’s gone, shot in the back of the head. Executed because of a war he wasn't even part of—until now. That grief is layered with guilt, rage, and an old ache he’s tried to silence with chaos, with work, with crisis after crisis in an ER that never stops bleeding.

Tyson’s a man who can patch a collapsed lung with a pen and stop a man from bleeding out on a dirty floor, but he can't fix what got left behind in Utah. He can’t undo the way he failed to protect his siblings. Or the knowledge that even when he tried to save people, it still wasn’t enough.

And maybe—just maybe—the most dangerous part is: he doesn’t want to heal from it. Because if he lets go of that pain, then what’s left? What would anchor him? The anger, the grief, the guilt—they’ve become the only compass he trusts.

So yes. Tyson refuses to heal. Because healing would mean forgiving himself. And right now? He doesn’t believe he deserves that.

[tysonhatch]

[richietozsier]

I realized then that's the worst thing you can do for them... make friends with them. 'Cause they get comfortable with you, they're just gonna end up getting killed.

[peytonhayes]

"She knows you're not a sell out." Peyton muttered softly before she guided them outside of her apartment. The itch for a cigarette made her fingers instinctively pick at the skin around her nails, but she wanted to wait until they were on the road in fear of giving she him a chance to back out from going to whatever flashy thing his mother was going to put on and call a funeral. It wouldn't be what his sister wanted, or even deserved, but they needed to go and put on a stone face.

The engine roared to life and they set off, allowing Peyton some time to take a deep breath and forget about the heaviness they'd soon confront for a moment. The road always brought her some peace, and for the longest time, she felt it was because of the sound of tire meeting concrete but she knew better now. It was the control she had behind the wheel. How easily she could veer towards oncoming traffic and just end the torment and darkness that loomed in her head. A sort of control she still had over her life after feeling so helpless in the past.

She flipped open the middle console and dug in the stuffed compartment until she reached the crumbled pack of malboro's, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. He'd had enough— hell she could probably tell how many packs he'd had just by the scent wafting off of him. It had probably been his diet, alongside whatever liquor was handy, in the last few days. She didn't judge. It wasn't the time to reprimand. No, she'd try her best to hold him together as much as she could so the loss felt a little less today.

"Here." Her hand extended the pack towards him, peering at him from the corner of her eye. "You know I wouldn't be anywhere else." No thanks was needed.

The parking situation was shit but a few curses beneath her breath and impatient taps on her wheel willed someone to leave the premises of the funeral home parking lot just before she decided to give up and drive around the neighbourhood for another free spot. It felt like his mother had invited the whole fucking town.

"You gonna flash me a look or give me a code work if you feel like you're gonna lose it and punch someone, right?" Peyton asked when they walked to the door.

"Just say the word and I'll be there." Whether he needed her presence or just someone to tear him free from the strangers who'd act like they were long lost relatives. She'd be his exit plan.

[tysonhatch]

He didn’t reach for a cigarette right away. Just stared at the pack in her hand like it was a question he didn’t know how to answer. Then, finally, he took one—fingers brushing hers, brief and quiet—and brought it to his lips without lighting it. Just let it rest there. Something about the ritual was almost enough on its own. Like muscle memory for when his hands didn’t know what else to do.

When she said you know I wouldn’t be anywhere else, he didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Not without something in him cracking. But his throat bobbed with the swallow he tried to hide, and he gave the smallest nod—one of those nods that said more than words could. That said I know. I’m glad. I don’t deserve it.

The temple came into view like a fucking monolith. His jaw tensed. It looked like something out of a magazine spread, polished and manicured, not a single damn hair out of place—and somehow that made it worse. Because Peyton was right. This wasn’t what Taylor would’ve wanted. This was his mother’s grief, curated for public display. A pageant. A press release. A statement that said we are grieving but we are still in control.

Tyson had never felt less in control in his life.

He could feel it building behind his ribs—rage, grief, whatever the hell sat between those two things. Tight and vicious, like a wire pulled taut. He adjusted the collar of his shirt with a twitchy hand and exhaled hard through his nose, willing himself to not come apart before they even walked inside.

When she spoke again—You gonna flash me a look or give me a code word…—he almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he muttered, “The sign will be me bolting” His hand hovered near the small of her back as they made the death march towards the temple doors, not quite touching, but close—just to anchor himself in space as they stepped toward the doors. He was already pulling on the mask he’d have to wear inside: the responsible son, the stable one, the brother who didn’t break. He lied with every step. But she was the one thing that felt real.

[staincdvermillion]

there had been no feeling of similarity. kaan hadn't ever lost someone as close to him as a sibling was. he'd not ever had to worry about that possibility, not with the family that he had been raised within. the kind that settled fear in the hearts of those that ever even dared. but he could see the turmoil written so hastily upon tyson's features. he could sympathize with the feeling that had rooted in his chest. in the very marrow of his bones. the feeling that would propel him to do whatever was necessary, no matter the steps that it would take him to get there. it was a kind of feeling that kaan knew he could exploit. though the question lingered, on whether he would .

every movement was tracked. with kaan's steady, unwavering gaze. he had dealt with far too many men who were on the brink of destruction. it had been too many years, that he'd barely batted an eye. at the fury, at the rage that curled one's fingers. he offered nothing, not a word or a shift in his movement. while he listened to tyson's words. while he understood precisely what the man was asking for, and what he was putting on the table .

after a moment, kaan stood from his own seat. he studied tyson for another beat, before he nodded. " you'll get information to move on. no bullshit, no setup. " he confirmed. tyson had been correct, the city was burning. it had started long before the barone mansion went up in flames the night of the gala. and it hadn't been put out when the mansion had been reduced to ashes either. " keep your favor. what i find you will benefit the both of us. so consider it on the house. " a pause, " what i find might not give you the closure you want. but it'll get you to where you need to go. "

[tysonhatch]

Tyson didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, jaw tight, shoulders squared beneath the weight of the suit he hadn’t bothered to straighten in hours. His hands flexed at his sides—not from nerves, not anymore. Just from tension that had no place to go. No outlet except the one he was asking for. A name.

His gaze didn’t drift from Kaan’s. Didn’t blink. It was the same look he’d had in the trauma bay when someone was bleeding out in front of him—controlled, clinical, detached. But just beneath the surface, rage burned slow and steady like a fuse no one had quite managed to snuff out yet.

Kaan stood, made his statement, and Tyson listened. Not just to what he said—but to what he didn’t. There was no such thing as a clean favor in this city. Tyson had worked too many back alley deals, stitched up too many guilty men, to believe otherwise. Even this—especially this—wasn’t free. Kaan wasn’t offering help out of kindness. He was offering help because their interests happened to align. For now. Tyson could live with that.

“I’m not looking for closure,” he said finally, voice quiet but firm. “I don’t give a damn about peace. Or healing. Or any of that bullshit people keep telling me I’m supposed to want.” He glanced away for half a second—just one—and when his eyes came back, they were colder. Sharper. “I just want the right target.”

Tyson let the weight of Kaan’s offer settle. No bullshit. No setup. He’d hold him to that. Because if this turned out to be another false lead, another carefully orchestrated redirection, Tyson wouldn’t hesitate to burn down everything around it. “You get me there, I won’t ask twice. I won’t hesitate. I’ll put them in the ground.” There wasn’t anger in his voice—just certainty. The kind that came from standing over his sister’s body, from scraping together the pieces of a life someone else shattered. “If what you find takes me somewhere useful…” His eyes flickered once more across Kaan’s face, reading him like he would a patient on the edge of crashing. “That’s enough.” He didn’t offer thanks. Didn’t shake his hand. He didn’t believe in gratitude for something like this. He didn’t believe in debts being settled—not really. And without another word, Tyson turned and walked out of the room, shoulders straight, steps steady. The door clicked shut behind him, soft but final. Whatever came next, he’d walk into it with eyes open and fists ready. And when the name came—He wouldn’t flinch. He wouldn’t run. He’d act.

[imanixkline]

It felt like they were in some kind of stand-off as she waited to see if he would actually sit down. But the silent conflict wasn't between the two of them but within him. What she could only assume was that soldier's training and a brother's instinct. She remained silent, expression impassive as she waited to see which one would win out.

He sat and while he didn't reach for the glass in front of him, she did for hers. Small sip was taken as she wondered if the aged scotch would help whatever information he was about to share go down any sooner. Nothing would be shocking, of course, not when she was so aware and desensitised to what went on in the world that they chose to move in.

What was new was the almost surprising fact that she had some semblance of genuine care for him, the grief pouring from him slipping under her mask and seaping through the usual impenetrable walls. Finding cracks she didn't know existed, ones she'd be sure to seal back up the moment he left her office.

Subtle nods were given in acknowledgement as he spoke, taking care to commit it all to memory. "Wraith. Interesting." Some kind of obnoxious calling card but maybe more of a lead than the various loose motives he described. Once he was done she looked at him for a long moment, gaze travelling over his features as though she was searching for something. She found her answer, almost, deciding her was a man who was about to do whatever it took to get what he deemed justice and so it prompted her to pose him a question. "Am I gonna need to put the burns unit on standby for you too? Or maybe the morgue?" Tone was flat but she couldn't help but wonder if she found herself sat opposite a dead man walking.

[tysonhatch]

He didn’t touch the scotch. Just stared at it like it might bite him. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly—it was just loud. He could feel it crawling beneath his skin, the same way adrenaline used to feel just before a door got kicked in. Except there were no guns in his hands now. No target in his sights. Just this. Memory and grief and fury all mixing together, burning through his bloodstream like a slow poison.

When she finally spoke—Wraith. Interesting.—he nodded once, lips pressing into a line. It was interesting. That someone like that existed. That someone like that had been hired to erase his sister. Not because she was a threat. Not because she’d made a mistake. But because she’d been there. Because she was close enough to bleed.

He didn’t look at her when she studied him. Didn’t need to. He could feel her gaze like it was peeling something back he hadn’t meant to show. And when the question came—Am I gonna need to put the burns unit on standby for you too? Or maybe the morgue?—he didn’t laugh. Didn’t blink.

He just leaned forward, elbows to knees, the drink still untouched on the table in front of him. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Quietly. Like the weight of it might tip something if he spoke too loud. “Guess it depends on how far they want to push me. And how many people are willing to stand in my way.” There wasn’t bravado in it. No show of power. Just a statement of fact. He wasn’t alright. And he wasn’t looking to be saved.

His thumb dragged over the inside of his palm—habit, now. A grounding gesture when the blood in his head started to thrum too loud. “I didn’t ask for this,” he added. “Didn’t come looking for a war. I’ve spent years staying out of the bullshit. Stitching up the messes people like them make so no one else has to die. And now—” He stopped, jaw working. “Now I’ve got a body bag with my sister’s name on it, and no one's even pretending it was an accident.”

Finally, his gaze lifted to meet hers. Tired. Hollow in a way no sleep could fix. “I’m not trying to be a martyr, Imani. I don’t give a shit about heroics. But if the morgue’s where I end up—” A pause. “I just want to make sure they’ve got a few extra slabs ready. Because I’m not going alone.”

He leaned back again, finally taking the glass in hand. Still didn’t drink. Just stared at it a moment before setting it down again, softer than he felt. Then, almost an afterthought: “You ever wonder if we got too good at surviving?” His voice thinned, rougher around the edges. “Like maybe the people who taught us how… forgot to tell us what the hell to do after.”

[imanixkline]

A name. It sounded as though it should be so simple for her to provide but nothing in the city came without strings attached. It was always a decision on which ones to cut and which ones to pull tighter. The likelihood that it was someone else she had dealing with was involved was high and digging into this could produce an answer that she didn't want to deal in. The logical thing to do was say that this time she couldn't help. That she wouldn't use her considerable connections and resources. It wasn't as though she wouldn't be able to find a new medic.

But for all she'd done countless things over the years that were in heavy shades of grey and still been able to easily look at herself in the mirror, Imani couldn't help but feel like this wasn't one of them. Not when she'd see her father's face looking back at her. Eyes flickered over his face, studying him, almost as though she was looking for signs that the good Doc she was familiar with was still in there. She didn't find any, obvious grief clouding any traces of familiarity. Their usual easy rapport feeling so out of reach.

A nod was given to show she'd heard him, sip of her drink taken as she weighed her options. There was a soft sigh as she decided to worry about the outcome of all this at a later date, it wasn't as though she couldn't handle it. Another drink was poured and slid across the table before she looked pointedly at the seat in front of her. "Sit." It wasn't a suggestion. The restless energy pouring off him was drawing her focus, focus that needed to be on whatever information he could give her. Besides, he looked like he hadn't let himself have a moment's rest. Dead on his feet. "Tell me everything you know." Even if seemed inconsequential it could prove to be the key to her giving him the target he was craving.

[tysonhatch]

He stared at the glass. Didn’t sit. Not yet. His hands were curled at his sides like he was still holding something—maybe the weight of Taylor’s body bag, maybe just the echo of the last few weeks. Like if he let his fingers unclench, something inside of him might unravel completely. But then her voice cut through the fog.

Sit.

He blinked. Looked at the drink, then at the chair, and finally back at Imani. Something flickered in his eyes—an unspoken thanks, maybe. Or maybe just that old soldier’s instinct, the one that followed orders when they came from someone who actually knew what the fuck they were doing. He sat. Let the silence stretch for a beat too long, the glass untouched between them.

Then—quietly, his voice rough—he said, “It wasn’t the fire that killed her.” He kept his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. The edge of a picture frame. The curl of condensation on a nearby bottle. “They executed her. Two shots, back of the head. Fire was just for show.” His jaw twitched. Something sharp passed behind his eyes, but it never reached his voice.

“The cops also asked if the word 'Wraith' meant anything to me. Still don't know why.” He finally reached for the glass. Didn’t drink—just held it. “I know who had motive. Kurtlar. Maybe the Family. Hell, maybe both. Taylor’s piece-of-shit ex shot one of theirs. My brother picked a fight with the other." He looked at her now, steady. No heat. No pleading. Just cold clarity. “I’m not asking you to move mountains. I just need a direction to start burning.”

[staincdvermillion]

from the simple look of tyson, anyone could see that he was out for blood. that the want for it harbored deep within him, a festering hunger at the root of his being. and it wouldn't take anyone but one simple guess to know where that blood would be spilled from. and that alone prompted a response from kaan, which is why he had entertained this meeting. this conversation between two individuals that, in a way, wanted for the same thing. and in kaan's eyes, he didn't care how it happened, so long as it did happen .

it wasn't just a fire. the words were the confirmation that kaan had been searching for. the knowledge that the family hadn't simply been wanting to send a message. they had wanted their own pound of flesh. and in that, tyson's sister had become collateral. incidental deaths had never been uncommon, nor unheard of within kaan's atmosphere. he had seen it many times. had dealt the hand of death himself. but those that received his dealings were often in the same realm as those he'd been gunning for. and something told him that taylor had been in an entirely different realm than them .

for a moment, kaan allowed the words to settle. his fingers rubbed against his lips, before they moved to his jaw. all while he considered the words spoken, the idea that had been written into his thoughts. the family had indeed stretched their hand, a fact that came swiftly after the ascension of the barone heir securing the vacant seat of his father. and allowing a man who had just stepped into leadership believe he could do as he pleased, with little to no consequences ... that wasn't something kaan was certain he'd be comfortable with .

" you're right, i don't play nice. but i do play smart. " he started, as his hand settled into his lap. " the family will be anticipating blowback. they'll be expecting discourse over what they've done. and running in, guns blazing ... that's not going to get you very far. " he stated matter-of-fact. but tyson had saved his life, and for that, kaan owed him .

" if it was execution-style, that means they likely hired for it. and since nightshade had no part in it, i'll see what i can find through my connections. if there's a name to be uncovered, i'll get it for you. " he paused, for a moment. before he leaned forward. " the family has the cops in their back pocket. take what they give you, but give nothing in return. this isn't just covering up loose ends anymore. this is making moves. " ones that kaan wanted to ensure made their way no further across the board. this wasn't the family's city, not anymore .

" there's too many rumors. the family, the hollow; it's all fucked. but i'll find you something. " he stated, as he leaned back once more. " something worth using. "

[tysonhatch]

Tyson didn’t flinch. Not at the confirmation, not at the way Kaan picked apart the truth and turned it over like a stone in his palm. And not at the subtle jab—the Family will be expecting blowback—because of course they fucking would. That’s why they’d done it the way they had. Quick, clean, back-of-the-head. A message disguised as a mistake. They weren’t trying to ignite war. They were trying to dare someone to start it.

Tyson just sat there, arms folded, jaw tight as Kaan laid it all out. Smart play. Hired gun. Cops in the Family’s pocket. Moves across the board. All things he already knew—suspected, at least. But hearing it confirmed didn’t make it easier to swallow. He let the silence sit a beat too long before finally speaking. “I’m not planning on kicking in the front door,” Tyson said, voice low. “Not unless I’ve got the name of the guy who pulled the trigger and a clean shot.” He may have been burning with righteous fury, but he wasn't suicidal.

He leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, fingers threading together. “But I’m not waiting six months for breadcrumbs. You find something—I move. I don’t give a fuck if he’s on payroll, in hiding, or six feet under. Someone signed off on her death, and someone cashed the check. I’m coming for both.”

He didn’t thank him. Didn’t smile. Just met Kaan’s gaze, flat and unwavering. “You get me something worth using, I’ll owe you one.”

A pause. Then, quieter—measured. “But make sure it’s clean. No plants. No setup. You feed me bullshit, I’ll know.” He stood, the chair scraping faintly beneath him. A nod—not of gratitude, but of understanding. “This city’s already burning, Kaan. I just wanna make sure it burns the right people.”

[ingridbergman]

Garrett Hedlund as Tom in Mojave (2015) dir. William Monahan

[tomhatch]

Tommy had been late. Not because he wanted to be, and not for the reason anyone would’ve expected-- it wasn’t booze or pills this time. It wasn’t the fight to get out of bed or the nerves catching up with him halfway down the block. It was the goddamn tie. He’d stood in front of his closet for nearly an hour, staring, trying to figure out what the fuck a man was supposed to wear to bury his sister. The black one felt too on the nose, like he was playing dress-up. The navy one was wrinkled and stained, shoved in the back behind shirts he hadn’t touched in years. The red one—the only one that looked relatively newer—reminded him of the fire, of the blood spilled. None of them were quite right, none of them could make sense of the fact that he was walking into a funeral that never should’ve happened in the first place.

He went with black.

By the time he walked through the chapel doors, he was one of the last to arrive. He could practically feel the way eyes peeled towards him, interrupting somber conversations even before he looked up. He kept his eyes low, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders tight beneath a jacket that didn't quite fit him right. And -- fuck, he'd forgotten to shave, of course. Even worse, their parents barely regarded him — his mother’s mouth twitched like she wanted to say something, but didn’t, instead going back to fuss over Tyson's collar. His father offered nothing but a shake of his head, a disappointed look.

God, even though he knew where they stood, even though they'd made their intentions to cut contact with him clear years ago, it still fucking hurt.

Tommy took a spot near the back, hovering just inside the aisle. He kept his head down, kept his breathing even as possible. Tried not to think about how hard it had been to show up sober. How close he’d come to pouring something in his coffee just to take the edge off. But he hadn’t. Why? Perhaps because, deep down, he thought it might matter. But it didn't; Tommy was still a fucking pariah.

At some point, an elder had spoken. The choir sang. And all the while, Tommy just stood there, stiff and restless, trying to feel something through the thick fog of anxiety, through the weight of grief—anything that might crack through the numbness and free him from this quiet fucking torture, but it didn't come. His relationship with the church had always been tense, and his inability to connect with its teachings was, broadly speaking, one of the reasons he'd gone down the path he had in the first place. But the truth was—he’d always wanted to believe. Wanted it to bring him solace. Comfort. That was the problem though; wanting wasn’t enough. So when no comfort came, when no light broke through, he’d gone looking for relief elsewhere.

Because if God couldn’t pull him out of the pit, couldn’t quiet the noise or soothe the ache—then what the hell else was there but alcohol? But drugs? There’d never been an alternative. So he’d burned it all down, himself included.

He’d been lost in his own head when Tyson stepped up beside him, flinching slightly at the brush of a shoulder as if he hadn't expected him to come over. They hadn't spoken properly since the night that Taylor died, and part of him felt an immense amount of guilt -- for the lack of comfort he'd been able to give, for not calling or texting, but he'd been so lost in his own shit he didn't want to burden the man with his own grief. Not when Tyson must have had a mountain of his own.

Tommy swallowed thickly, scratching at the back of his neck. He was on edge, obviously, but his nerves being amplified by the lack of 'support' in his system. Aside from a quick hit from his weed pen earlier that morning -- much earlier -- he was more sober than he had been in a while. Funny how the best thing he'd done for himself in years also made him look and feel even worse.

“No. It isn't.” He agreed softly, voice barely more than a whisper. The mention of food had his stomach lurching, and his hand instinctively pressed against it. “Uh—” A dry, humorless scoff escaped as he shook his head. “Honestly? If I put anything in my stomach, I’ll fuckin’ puke.” He glanced up at Tyson’s profile, just for a second, then looked away again. “But, um—I’ve got a bag of Doritos in my truck. And I could really use a smoke.”

[tysonhatch]

He just stood there at Tommy’s side, hands in the pockets of the suit their mother had insisted he wear, eyes fixed on the altar like if he stared long enough it would all rewind. That this place could spit Taylor back out—alive, annoyed, dressed in something wildly inappropriate for temple, flipping off the whole damn ward with a grin.

Tyson’s jaw flexed. The choir was still singing. Off-key. Like someone had slapped together a performance to make sure the service looked good on camera. He exhaled through his nose. “Doritos and a cigarette,” he said finally, voice low. “Could’ve been our family crest if we got to design it.”

He glanced sideways just once—took in Tommy’s hunched posture, the scratch of his neck, the way he didn’t look like he’d slept. But he was sober. He knew Tommy well enough to read it in the tension behind his eyes, the slight twitch in his fingers like they didn’t know what to do without a drink or a hit. And for a moment, that mattered more than the tie, the collar, the half-trimmed beard.

“You showed up,” he added. “That’s more than they were ever gonna give you credit for.” He didn’t have to say who they were. The weight of their parents hung over both of them like a noose made of pressed linens and passive-aggressive remarks. Tyson rubbed a hand down his face, the pads of his fingers dragging over the bristle of his jaw. “Let’s step out for a few. Get some air. Before I tell the bishop exactly where he can shove that eulogy.”

His voice wasn’t angry—not exactly. Just frayed. Edged with a kind of exhaustion that came from weeks of holding too much for too many. And the longer he stayed in this building, in that pew, in this performance, the more he could feel something inside of him cracking.

He took a step toward the side door, then paused. Looked at Tommy again. “And hey—next time, if you can’t pick a tie, just call me. I’ll pick the ugliest one I own and we can both look like shit together.” It wasn’t a joke. Not really. But it was the closest he could come to saying I don’t want you doing this alone.