The street food stall sat on the edge of Ocean Beach, a cart on wheels with a greasy grill and a handwritten sign that said "Burgers & Dogs — Best on the Beach."
Marina parked the Sentinel at the curb. The ocean was thirty feet away, dark and endless, the waves whispering against the sand. The neon of the strip flickered behind them—pink and cyan and green, reflected in the wet asphalt.
They were hungry. The whiskey had been on empty stomachs, and the adrenaline of the meeting had worn off, leaving behind a hollow ache.
Shupto approached the cart and studied the menu. "Beef or chicken for me. No pork."
The vendor, an old Cuban man with gold teeth and tired eyes, nodded. "Dos hamburguesas de res, una de pollo, y una perra caliente?"
Shupto looked at Marina and Nikki. They nodded.
"Three beef burgers, one chicken, one hot dog," Shupto translated. "And fries. Extra fries."
They ate in the car, the windows down, the salt breeze carrying the smell of fried onions and sizzling meat. Marina tore into her burger like she hadn't eaten in days—maybe she hadn't, not really, not since the fight. Nikki ate more delicately, wiping her mouth with napkins, saving bits of her hot dog for later. Shupto ate quietly, methodically, the way he did everything.
The Sentinel faced the ocean. The beach was empty at this hour, just the waves and the stars and the distant lights of boats on the water.
Marina looked north, toward Ocean Beach proper. "My parents live nearby. Couple blocks that way."
Nikki turned in her seat. "We should visit them. Meet your family."
"Soon." Marina's voice was soft. "Not tonight. Tonight we find a place to sleep and figure out how to take over the most profitable strip of land in Vice City."
She fell silent. The waves filled the space.
Then she turned to Shupto. Her voice was casual, but her eyes were sharp.
"Why did you touch my ass like that?"
Shupto didn't flinch. Didn't look away. He set down his burger and wiped his hands on a napkin.
"I didn't like the way Carlito was looking at you." His voice was calm, honest. "Or the way Dante was looking at Nikki. They needed to understand—" He paused, searching for words. "—that we're not playthings. We're not territory to be claimed. And I'm sorry if I overstepped."
Marina's heart was doing something complicated in her chest.
"Your ass," Shupto continued, a small smile tugging at his lips, "is very soft. And squishy. In a nice way."
Nikki choked on her mango shake.
Marina's face went scarlet. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came.
Shupto's smile widened—that warm, disarming smile that made her forget how to breathe.
"I'm just being honest," he said.
"Shut up," Marina managed.
"I'm eating for two!" Nikki wheezed, still coughing.
"Not you too," Marina groaned.
They laughed—all three of them, sitting in a stolen car on the edge of Ocean Beach, the city spread out behind them like a promise and a threat.
---
IV.
Nikki excused herself to find a bathroom—a small café still open at the end of the block, its lights warm and welcoming.
Marina and Shupto leaned against the Sentinel's hood, side by side, facing the ocean. The waves rolled in and out, endless and indifferent. The stars were bright here, away from Downtown's neon glare.
Marina's mind was a storm.
The kiss at the yacht club. His mouth on hers, desperate and hungry and false—except it hadn't felt false. Not to her.
The fight in the basement. Him bursting through the door, blood on his face, coming for her when he could have run.
His hand on her ass in front of the most dangerous men in Vice City, claiming her like she was something worth claiming.
She turned to look at him.
He was already looking at her.
His grey hair moved in the breeze. His dark eyes reflected the stars. The scars on his face were silver in the moonlight.
"I didn't mean to touch you like that," he said quietly. "Not without asking. It was—"
"I didn't mind."
The words came out before she could stop them. Her face heated again, but she didn't look away.
"It just surprised me," she added. "That's all."
Shupto was very still. The only movement was the wind in his hair, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
"That's all?" he asked.
Marina didn't answer.
They moved closer. She didn't know who started it—maybe both of them, maybe the tide pulling them together. His face was inches from hers. She could see the individual scars, the way his eyelashes caught the light, the small mole beside his left eye.
His breath was warm on her lips.
She tilted her chin up.
He leaned down.
"Ahem."
Nikki stood ten feet away, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Her smile was enormous.
Marina shoved Shupto so hard he nearly fell off the hood.
"We weren't—" Marina started.
"It's not—" Shupto said at the same time.
Nikki said nothing. Just stood there, smiling, one hand on her belly, radiating smugness.
Marina's face was the color of her hair. "What?"
"I didn't say anything," Nikki said sweetly. "But your eyes are saying too many things."
Marina opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Shupto laughed—a real laugh, warm and unguarded, the kind of laugh Marina had never heard from him before.
"We should find that safehouse," he said, pushing off the hood.
"Yes," Marina said too quickly. "Safehouse. Good. Let's go."
She walked toward the driver's side, refusing to look at either of them.
Behind her, Nikki linked her arm through Shupto's and whispered, loud enough for Marina to hear: "She likes you."
"I know," Shupto whispered back.
"I can hear you both," Marina called over her shoulder.
They were both grinning when she glanced back.
She shook her head, but she was smiling too—small and helpless and completely out of her control.
The Sentinel started with a purr. The ocean whispered. The stars watched.
Three ghosts, driving toward a new war.
And somewhere in the darkness between them, something was blooming that none of them had planned for.