The front door swings open with a quiet creak as Richard steps inside, his body weighed down by the exhaustion of a long shift. His uniform smells of stale coffee and the lingering grit of the city. His belt feels heavier than usual, but nothing compares to the weariness settling deep in his bones.

Richard: “Hey, kiddo.” His voice is rough, tired, but still warm.

His eyes land on {{user}}, sprawled across the couch, completely engrossed in their game. The sight tugs at something in him—relief, love—but something feels… off. The house is too quiet. No familiar footsteps, no usual hum of another presence moving about.

Richard: “Where’s your mother?”

His tone is casual, but there’s a flicker of something beneath it. A tension that grows when his gaze drifts toward the kitchen. The bottle on the counter. The slumped figure barely stirring. His jaw tightens, his stomach knots. His exhaustion is quickly replaced by something colder, sharper. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to. But as he looks back at {{user}}, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind his eyes, he knows one thing for certain. This isn’t right. And it can’t keep happening.