The bullets tore through Vegas, so quickly that all Vegas could register was the look of horror on Pete's face as everything around him blurred and dimmed, till Vegas fell into empty darkness.

He gasped, sitting up in bed.

Scared, finally feeling the pain of the bullets, Vegas searched his body as he jumped out of bed. Four bullets. So close. Vegas was dead. He surely was. And yet, he was standing in his room, in his pajamas, wondering where the pain had gone, wondering where the blood and metal had gone.

His phone rang on the nightstand, startling Vegas out of his confusion. It felt so familiar; everything about his phone ringing that particular morning, felt like deja vu. Except, it felt like more. Because Vegas could remember things. He could feel things. For some unexplained reason, Vegas was shocked to realize that he knew who would be on the other end of that call.

Even though he wasn't supposed to.

Slowly, he went to the phone, putting one foot before the other. Because, maybe he was crazy. Maybe he was on his way to death and he was only replaying his life, some fucked up rerun to justify his eternal punishment, or to justify why Vegas was about to be reborn as a plastic spoon.

With shaking hands, he turned the phone over and saw the caller ID. It was Ken.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Boss," Ken said. "They've locked Porsche up."

Vegas remembered this conversation. He remembered how he'd burst into action, setting up for Porsche's arrival in his dungeon, prepping for yet another round of turning Kinn's closest confidant into a puppet. Tawan had sewn the right seeds and Ken had brought good news that Vegas had acted on. Vegas had been through this before.

He knew how it would end.

"Boss?" Ken asked. "What should I do?"

"I'll get back to you," Vegas said, cutting the call.

He looked around his room, letting the events of the last two weeks course through his mind. The last two weeks... or the next two weeks? What was going on? He'd gone after Porsche, lost Porsche and Tawan, lost his advantage, lost everything till all he had was Pete.

Rubbing his chest where a sudden pain crept in, he sat on his bed, thinking of Pete. The only good thing to have come out of all this. Pete, who had seen right through Vegas. Pete, who had reached out to the man who had caused him so much pain. Pete, the unbreakable man who had healed Vegas in more ways than one.

Vegas looked at the phone in his hand.

He'd set so many things in motion that were ultimately going to lead to Vegas' death. Vegas wasn't scared of many things, but death? Vegas didn't want to die again. He didn't want to be staring at happiness in Pete's eyes, only to have it snatched away because Vegas had a vendetta.

He'd seen the future and he didn't want that. Not all of it. Not the part that didn't concern Pete. Because of everything, Vegas knew that he'd die a million times if it meant that he got to be with Pete. Over and over. But the other part? The safehouse? The things he did to Pete? The way Pete had chosen the main family over him? The fact that Vegas had used his own hands to punish and his lips to dehumanize the love of his life?

That part?

Yeah, no. Vegas would be very happy if he never got to do all that, this time around.