What passed for 'morning' in this fucked-up place found Brant sitting on a roof-top, with a gun in his lap and a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. His legs were dangling over the edge of the tallest building with roof access he could find, his hand was resting lightly on top of the gun, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was pale, but he wasn't crying.
When he heard footsteps behind him, he didn't turn. He just said, "I'm not giving it back."
He meant the gun. He'd given up completely on his Jack. Actually, no. Who he'd given up on was himself, or everyone, depending on your point of view. He just didn't think he was going to see his Jack again.