Somehow, not that there was an issue with it, they had picked up the habit of being a stylist for the other.

As Ken's arm healed, he could return the favor to Juri. Pink streaks were easier to handle than a full head of blonde. It all came down to how it was applied. Thus, Ken was meticulous with each strip of hair in which he applied the dye. In the end, she was also demanding pink gradients.

"So what is Guile to you?" she asked, once the allotted time for the dye to set in began.

"My brother-in-law. He's married to my wife's sister," Ken wasn't at the stage where he could comfortably call Eliza ex-wife and not wince. He knew it was weak of him, but he needed it to keep his wits. A little coping self-delusion would probably save his sanity.

Especially since Juri, despite knowing the whole truth, didn't try to point out the obvious. Supposedly she didn't find joy in his mental breakdown anymore.

"Geez, your double dates and orgies gotta be so awkward."

"God no," he stared at her. The double dates were a little terse, yes but orgies? No. Just no. Amusingly no. The sheer lunacy of such a jesting assumption was a good alternative to the ghost of the emotional hangover from Guile's revelation. The spat that followed still had Ken's nerves in tatters.

It loomed within. He still felt it. How close it stood to breaking his nerve. It must have been radiating off him like a nuclear powerplant meltdown. It had sunk so deeply into him like a bullet embedded in flesh. And what did he have to show for it? Not much, that was.

When his father had died, unraveling him, Eliza had been there, hopping on the first plane from New York to Japan. That same woman was now the source of the weight that was close to snapping him in half. Somehow Ken's slow breakdown was a delayed affair, but he feared it might have shattered something inside irreparably.

Desperately unhappy in the days that followed, restless for answers, rattled by the lack of progress. Ken conversed with Juri but he was a tad quieter when Chun-Li and the others were around. Slow to answer questions with the vigor he once held, acknowledging whatever they'd say with affirmative nods.

Avoiding Guile entirely.

It wasn't entirely fair, and Ken couldn't decide if he was ashamed, angry, or conflict-avoidant. Maybe all three.

Maybe mirrored in Guile.

Juri washed the dye out of her hair and Ken retreated to some desperate echo of what his life used to be.

"Gimme your hands," her command cut through his mind, and he looked at her, bemused as he held out his hands. His fingers rested in her palms, then palm as she reached for a bottle of black nail polish.

"What are you doing?" he asked while knowing the answer. He should drop his habit of posing stupid questions with obvious answers.

Juri would normally scoff at him as well. She didn't. Her brow furrowed in concentration while swiping the brush over his nails, coating them black like the soulless night. "Giving you a color that brightens your mood."

Ken's eyes darkened with an odd sense of mirth, and he stopped thinking about the sharp scent of nail polish singeing his nostrils or the heaviness weighing on his fingers. Maybe he was more amused at the ironic joke or the mischief that caused Juri to wet her lips like a cat. Since when did she care about his feelings? Since now apparently.

The answer killed enough vestiges of misery in Ken for him to feel it. She came here after all. He wanted to keep her in his friend circle. No sense in tainting his own desires.

The headquarters of the Eagle Shipping Company was like a ghost town. Desolate and barren from life. Devoid of any signs from the people who'd spend eight hours of their day here. Ken never took the time to befriend any of his coworkers for the sake of self-preservation but now that he stood here, alone, he felt a distant sense of loneliness.

He drew a breath so deep, that his chest ached and released it, cataloging the scent of a place he wouldn't set foot in again after this. Maybe in some sick sense of nostalgia, he'd try to remember the feel of this place before it'd be locked away in the memory bank alongside Joseph "Joe" Gardner.

He smelled nothing but the fading oil from absent barrels, the harbor, and the occasional residue of bird shit. He listened to the seagulls cry and the water brushing against the pier. He'd probably miss it.

Ken made it inside the main building, down corridors that he had grown familiar with, past the breakroom where he had eaten his lunch numerous times. The floor was immaculate as if someone had been cleaning the building. Sort of like spring cleaning before a house got sold. Like a house being foreclosed on. Ken walked down the halls for the last time, stopping in front of the open doorway to Simons' office.

There was no door.

Ken peered through the opening and stared at Simons sitting behind his desk, at the bottle of cheap vodka next to the empty glass. The notoriously stolid overseer hadn't groomed himself as a thick stubble sprawled across his jaw and his hair had a sheet of grease from lack of proper hygiene.

It all looked and felt too familiar.

"Joe…" Simons uttered.

Ken committed himself to the conversation that would happen instead of walking away. He winced at the sight of sharp, brown eyes, always hidden under a pair of shades.

Except for today.

It made Simons far more expressive than Ken had ever imagined. He swallowed his surprise as he posed, yet again, a foolish question with a self-evident answer.

"Where is everyone?" Ken asked.

"They quit. All of them except for you, it seems. I hope you're okay with working with a bunch of illegal immigrants. They'll come by next week."

It was as endearing as it was tragic. To think they could go back to a semblance of what once was. Ken felt guilty for shaking his head.

"I plan to move on. I'm just here to hand you my keys and this," he dropped the keys next to the glass and proceeded to take off his jacket.

"Keep it," Simons raised his hand in a movement far too slow for sobriety. Despite his inebriation, his voice was light and clear. "It's cold outside."

"Okay. Can I get my last paycheck then?"

Not that he needed it. It was more so a symbolic transaction. A tradition between a blue-collar worker and his supervisor. Gratefully, Simons understood this and hunched over his desk's drawers to pull out an envelope. Not a checkbook. Not a chance for the check to bounce.

"Say, you remind me a lot of that guy, the US Champion. Ken Masters. Are you related to him?" Simons poured himself another glass of vodka and gulped it down in one mouthful. Which was lucky timing as he failed to see Ken flinch.

"Uncle's cousin-in-law, once removed. I get that a lot," it came from Ken, leveled and practiced even if it was the first time, he had ever told that lie. Suppose when Nayshall was mentioned, it all came down to the man behind the conspiracy.

"Is that why you're interested in the bomb thing?"

Ken nodded. He felt naked without his hood on so he pulled it over his head and clenched his fist to hide the black nail polish. "He's a good friend of mine."

"…Considering what you've done, I'd say you'd be good for him," Simons pushed himself away from the desk to find another glass. "But that woman…the shipment. She's a bad seed."

Ken felt the urge to correct him. It didn't matter though, did it? What would he correct Juri to? Certainly not a power flower of love or something even if Ken was beginning to get an idea of how she ticked, what she needed. What her emotional core looked like. There existed that cadence between them at least.

"She's a wildcard. A tagalong. I don't work for her and she doesn't work for me. She helps with bringing me answers. Which included the ones in charge of the shipment. But I also wasn't expecting to be falsely arrested and get my ass smacked across linoleum floors. I'm not a crook."

Something in Simon's eye sparked with indignation at the suggestion, intentional or otherwise, that he however was one. "No, of course not. But you took the money."

That stolidness of his served him well despite having emptied the bottle of vodka now. He just pulled out another one from behind the desk.

"I gave it away," Ken shrugged and hesitantly reached for the glass of cheap Russian vodka. It smelled strongly of ethanol and burned in his throat when he drank it. A familiar sear. One he didn't want to succumb to.

At least, let him keep that vice at bay.

A hollow laughter, appropriately artificial came from Simons. "To charity, no doubt."

"…If I knew who Bred's family was, I would have given it to them," Ken quietly admitted – and neglected to mention that he didn't take the time to find out because that stack of cash burned a hole in his pocket, and he was eager to get rid of it. He couldn't admit that he'd have a breakdown if he saw a loved one and they asked him where Bred was.

In his heart of hearts, he knew he couldn't tell them that Bred was floating somewhere in Metro City's bay, dismembered. His guilt would proliferate into an ugly keloid and he'd have to vomit again. It was only by virtue of his own need for survival that he kept the memory away.

Simons on the other hand was not so stalwart, not with the visceral grimace now distorting his face. It reminded Ken that he too was human, marred and wounded from the dominos falling that led them down this path. "Don't remind me. Every time, I go to sleep at night. I see his dismembered corpse. I see the blood. I see his hand sticking out from the garbage bag."

Quietly rejecting a second glass, Ken stepped backward to the doorway of the office like he expected to get tased again. "I'm sorry. Good luck, Simons."

"You too, Joe."

And there was nothing else to be said.

Ken left his workplace for the final time, a moment's desolation filling him. Still, he didn't look back. He kept walking, walking until he felt somewhat free. Lost but free. Confused when he saw a pair of black horns resting against a black motorcycle. She knew where he worked but why did she come here?

"Juri?" Ken asked, and she kept her eyes glued to her phone. Occasionally her teeth clicked against the lollipop in her mouth.

"Was it wise to go back there?" she countered, and Ken relented.

"I just dropped by to quit, get rid of my jacket, deliver the keys, and get my last paycheck."

She stopped to look at him and he wasn't sure what to make of her expression. A wildcard, alright. "Three out of four isn't bad."

She gestured at him to hop on her bike, and he obliged because he was curious – and couldn't for the life of him figure out what her intentions were. As they raced down the streets of Metro City and slowed down in the shopping district, it became quite clear what was about to happen.

The bike came to a stop outside a clothing store and Juri looked at Ken like she willed him to move. He hopped off the bike but didn't quite go into the nearest store, shuffling on his feet like he didn't know what to do with them.

"Why?" he asked, warranted as he didn't see a clear answer, and still, she scoffed with a roll of her eyes.

"Because you need a new hoodie, right?" Juri tossed a wallet at him from the inner pocket of her jacket. "Can't wear that if you don't work for the assholes anymore."

Ah. Ken would have to wait long and hard for the day when his questions didn't have obvious answers. He opened the wallet, catching the bike driving off in his peripheral. Cash, a credit card, and a personal ID that did not belong to either Juri or him. He recognized the face on the driver's license and tried not to wince at the criminality.

Quietly, Ken moved into the store, between the clothing racks, and picked out practical, muted articles. Easy to move in. Not as flashy as he would have liked – or was used to. Still with a hefty price tag. Shirts, tank tops, pants, boxers, socks, a pair of new shoes, and a new hooded jacket in a dull red. A boring color, the woman in his life would label it.

It made him think of Eliza.

Of how she'd enjoy a good shopping trip here and there. Alone, with friends, with family.

Of how she'd drag Mel and Ken on her adventures.

Of how she'd flip the stores upside down until she found something that fitted them and looked good.

Of how she'd give Ken a black dress shirt, be displeased, and make him try another one in a slightly different shade of black.

Ken didn't try any of the clothes he bought in the changing room. He paid with the stolen credit card belonging to Phillippe and, miraculously so, did not feel a shred of guilt. More astounding was the fact that the money was withdrawn without incident but for all he knew, it was probably overcharged.

Eliza filled more of Ken's mind while he stood here in the middle of the street, waiting for Juri, waiting for the familiar buzz of her motorcycle engine.

And at last, he heard it.

The surrealism of the day continued when they got home. For once, Juri was the one to cook. That in itself was enough to shock Ken. By the dinner table, Ken sat with his legs crossed, drinking some black coffee. Usually, he liked it with milk and sugar but today, he just really wanted to feel the burn. For once, his mind was blank and Juri was largely quiet while she worked.

Silent headspace was something Ken took for granted, he realized. He stood up to fill his coffee mug again, careful not to bump into Juri, mindful not to look at her lest he got reminded of cooking wives. He was basking in the quiet for it stopped him from thinking about him being a divorcé.

Odd on top of oddness, Juri scooted over to offer him a piece of what looked like a piece of uneven dough from a pair of chopsticks. Intrigued Ken chewed and blinked back his surprise at tasting that familiar flavor of chicken – under a hotpot of spices. The kick of which stunned him, and his fingers brushed against his lips in musing thought.

As the meal cooked, the spice became a little stronger, almost like a burn of scalding coffee on the tip of his tongue. He somehow managed to compress it behind several glasses of water that filled his belly quickly but didn't quite obfuscate it from Juri's prying eyes. Finally, eventually, she brought a casserole to the table and two bowls of rice.

And milk. Goddammit, she really did find out.

Gingerly, Ken took a delicate nibble of the food. He had no frame of reference for what it was and it never occurred to him that he could just ask. Barbecued chicken, he guessed, very spicy; probably something from her heritage.

"I can't say I've had this before," he admitted between a testing mouthful and a glass of mercy milk.

"Buldak, it is. I just really had a sudden craving for it," Juri consumed her bites like it was candy, indifferent and pleased with the spices, judging from her soft hum.

"I think it's far more shocking that you can cook. You don't strike me as the domestic type."

Juri Han knew how to cook. Who could have thought?

She glanced up from her bowl of rice and gave Ken a narrow-eyed stare. He expected a scoff from her per usual, but she shrugged as if her cooking was just a fact of the universe as self-evident as the planet was round. She was more amused than dismissive.

"Yeah well, I'm not domestic but you learn a little bit of everything when you're on your own," she said in a manner that seemed to steer remarkably close to melancholy. So transparently honest like the concept was so ordinary, she didn't have much of an issue with disclosing it.

Taken aback yet a little honored by her esoteric revelation, Ken took in another mouthful, closing his eyes and savoring every morsel of taste. Spice be damned.

"I suppose we do."

They sat in relative silence, quietly eating like they had done time and time again. For how long though, Ken wondered. He considered the time that had passed since Juri began living rent-free here. A few months? Three at most? Ken had been away from his family far longer, and never quite got used to that.

He got used to Juri's presence. Very quickly.

"So, what are you going to do when this is over?" Ken asked as if he already had plans for himself. Admittingly, he didn't. He could fix his relationship with Eliza but she had divorced him for her own reasons. If she wished to move on, so be it – hard as that was to swallow. Hard like one particularly big piece of chicken, he put into his mouth.

"Go along on my own and fuck up life for people – as expected of me," Juri shrugged slightly with a rare display of disappointment that didn't pertain to her lust for stimulation. But disappointed over what?

A strange thought came over Ken. He could foresee that answer, just not delivered like that. What was she seeking then?

"I'm sure the others wouldn't mind if you stuck around. Kept in touch," Ken stumbled a little gracelessly into his assumption – his own selfish wish for something good in his life, taking another scoop of plain white rice, then adding; "I wouldn't mind. l like having you around. That's what it means to be friends, right?"

Juri flinched and her brow raised. "Cute."

The sarcasm was dripping like acid off that singular response.

"I know, right?" Ken smiled.

Juri pushed her empty bowl away with the chopsticks, leaned forward, and rested her head in her palms. Closing her eyes with a quiet sigh. She hadn't thrown a fuck you or fuck off so that was a good sign. Maybe.

"I don't think you do," Juri said, more seriously, opening her eyes. "Fucked up people like me just don't have friends. I'll give you that; it's a curious thought and tempting at times to experiment with but that's not how I roll. Besides you and I both know what a shitshow it would end up as if I stayed."

"In regards to the others?"

Juri nodded.

Ken quietly swallowed his last piece of chicken. At this point, his tongue was so numb to the spice that he didn't need the milk anymore. He imagined the exchange between Juri and Guile, how Chun-Li had to step in. How subsequent gatherings would take a turn for the worse because of volatile personalities. How inevitable it would be for Ken to try and induct Juri into the group just so she wouldn't be standing on the outside looking in – and he'd wonder if another confrontation would be the day where fists were thrown.

Bloodshed in the Masters' Estate. Tamed by Ken? But that was a lot to ask of the man.

"Right," he deflated with an unhappy sigh, his lips twitching upwards to a mending smile. "Well, the offer is still there if you ever change your mind. Shitshow or not, it can be worked on before it gets to that point."

"Even as a career criminal with kills, Shadaloo and S.I.N. on my resume?"

Ken nodded and stood up to gather the empty bowels, before bringing them to the sink. He had forgotten that S.I.N. used to be a subdivision of Shadaloo. Neither was no more. Clean slate, time for change. Accountability, the ghosting voice of his mother reminded him while he ran the dishes and utensils under hot water, then poured soap over them. Acceptance, his own optimism countered.

Acceptance.

"What are you gonna do with your old jacket?" Juri asked unprovoked. She came to the kitchen with the leftovers, leaving them in the pot to cool down until they were ready for the fridge.

Ken kept his eye on the pot. The question hadn't crossed his mind, he realized. Without looking up from washing the pot, he shrugged.

"You want it?"

Her face scrunched up in a grimace that hardly met the softness of her tone. "Ew, no. It's gonna smell like man and blonde hair dye."

To this, Ken found himself grinning, laying it bare for her to see. Eliza did always say he had a bad case of man-stink when he had spent hours training. It made her invest in a fumigator when they moved in together. God, she would pass out if she caught a whiff of Ryu on his worst days.

The question of what became of Ken's jacket was answered later that night. On the rooftop of the apartment building, under the watchful glares of the stars above. The streetlights weren't quite able to cast a direct light up here but the glow from the steel barrel was. Ken had once taken it from work – his old work because he liked to watch the spirit of the flame.

Staring at aimless fire dancing and lapping at whatever could fuel it brought a sense of tranquility over Ken. He stood to drop his jacket when Juri called out to him. When he looked at her, she was nose-deep in her phone, tapping on the screen. She gave a thumbs up and Ken, amused by her antics, dropped the jacket into the fire.

Searching through her pocket, Juri took out an eyepatch from her pocket and tossed it to the steel barrel like was it a piece of tissue paper.

"An eyepatch?" Ken asked, to see if she'd take the invitation for a conversation. No, she scoffed like she tended to do instead.

"No, Kenan," Juri strolled to the ledge of the rooftop. "A dildo."

Some other time then, Ken thought with a shrug. Some other day.

Juri curled against the ledge with a common, sullen look on her face. Her resting expression yet made a little more potent tonight. It marred the pleasant silence that passed under cackling flames and the distant hum of the city's traffic. Ken wondered if he should give in to his extroverted habits and just talk. Say something. It was odd for usually, he could handle the many quiet moments with Juri.

When he looked at her again, he realized he would have to put that on halt. For there, illuminated in the dying orange, Juri sat with her head resting on her arms, resting on her knees that had been pulled to her chest. Fast asleep. For once, she looked peaceful, but Ken couldn't just let her be out here. The forecast promised rain.

Crouching down in front of her, he gently shook her shoulder. "Juri, wake up."

Rousing others was an activity he was familiar with. As a child. As a friend. As a husband. As a father.

Juri was like a rock, and he'd probably have to slap her awake if he was less of a person. Instead, he scooped her up into his arms and carefully walked down the staircase from the rooftop once the flames died. Her head rested against his shoulder, and it helped that she was light. Ken had a feeling that she'd have a fit if he told her he had done this to her. More soothing was the realization that Juri had the sort of body that felt right to carry. The right featherweight, soft but not to the point of fragility.

When they returned to the abode and Ken eased her down to the couch, he took a moment to study her. He had seen her asleep many times before, but he had only taken the time to just look once. And saw how she looked at peace now. It was amusing how even the most chaotic people looked so at ease when in deep slumber.

It was surreal that this was the face from which crude, crass vulgarities tended to come on a minute-to-minute basis. A gallery of horror stories that could very easily keep Ken up at night. Juri got some sick enjoyment from alluding to them. Desensitization was her justification.

Ken was deeply descended into his rabbit hole of thoughts when he noticed Juri awake, staring at him. She blinked rapidly in that dazed way, which could easily lure you back to sleep.

"I forgot to mention that our next clue is in Chinatown," she whispered, then rolled onto her side and fell asleep again.

Smiling, Ken pulled a blanket over her.

And more domestic moments between the two. Honestly writing Ken and Juri trying to coexist is an interesting process.

So far it's going well, eh?