Stories. Of course there were. Stories and stories and so many whispered rumors. That name like a brand, a warning to anyone who knew how to look. But of course there's always someone who doesn't. Fucker still got careless, though. Went arrogant in his old age. Made a scene and someone noticed. Smashed his head in for it. He hopes the old fucker saw it coming. He hopes it fucking hurt.

Sharkface breathes out. Realizes his hands are clenched and forces them to relax.

"Nope," he agrees, in that same conversational tone. Fucker had connections of some sort. Friends in high places. "They never would."

He laughs at that. Imagining the fucker's face. The sound is low and rough. Vindictive. "Fucking Magpie."

Always collecting up shiny new things. Always going for the weak link. The ones who wouldn't say a goddamn thing. He'd been a fucking idiot when he was eighteen, Sharkface knows. Terminally stupid. Would have stayed that way if he hadn't met Hunter and Chica. Wouldn't have survived any of it.

And now here they are.

"I like you, Holloway. Just a little." He grins and rolls onto his back, staring up at nothing. Imagining blood under his nails. The feel of it. The smell. And for a moment he remembers the way Magpie had looked at him. Clamped a hand over his mouth and dug his nails in while he did it. How that had hurt in a way he hadn't been ready for. He remembers that more than anything. The sting of it. Moon-shaped cuts on his face that hadn't healed up right because he couldn't leave them alone. Always worrying at them until they opened up and started bleeding again.

Old memories. That's over now. He's survived much, much worse. But it's funny, in a way. Because this stranger did something he couldn't. Killed the fucker. Did a service to the rest of them.

Funny, that. Sharkface bares his teeth, laughter caught in his throat. So very funny.