"Look, Bev, I told you to get me the money by Friday—it's Friday. And look, no money. No money, no apartment." There was the slam of a wooden door, and the walls shook by Miss Willa's strength.

Outside of the apartment, lied Beverly's things, all sprawled along the flooring of the hallway. He pounded on the door, tears falling vastly. "Please, Willa. C-Come on, I promise I'll have the money by Monday—"

"You said that last time, kid. Now leave, before I call the police."

Beverly slid down the wall, his breathing erratic, while he ran a hand through his curls. "Dammit!"

Where would he go? There was no where to go. And Beverly knew that. But he had no idea that just across the hall, stood Red McCoy, eyebrows sewn together in pure confusion.

Beverly resembled his father—a lot, and the mere sight was enough to send a whirlwind of memories to flood Red's mind. The small, broken boy had to have been the son Esteban was always talking about. The resemblance was too similar.

Red dropped his cigarette, stomping on it with his boot.

"Hey!" He called out to Beverly, but Beverly hadn't heard him over his erratic breaths, and silent tears. "Hey, kid, I'm talking to you!"

When Beverly finally looked up, his heart began to pound at the tall, brooding, and particularly intimidating man walking toward him. "Y-Yeah?"

"Do you live here?" It was obvious Beverly had gotten evicted, due to unpaid rent—but Red still needed clarification.

"I used to." Beverly laughed a bitter laugh.

But Red didn't find it funny. He merely slid down beside him, holding his cigarette out to him. "Do you smoke?"

"No, I don't."

"That's good. That's really fucking good." Beverly's stature made Red laugh aloud. There he was, broken and homeless, while crying outside of his old home.

While, his most likely father, would have packed up his necessities, grabbed Norma by the wrist, and found another place to stay for the time being.

But one look at Beverly—and Red could tell, he was nothing like his father.