The clock had already struck past midnight when you finally pushed open the door. The house was dark, the only light seeping in from the window—cold moonlight that painted the living room in silver and shadow. The faint smell of alcohol clung to you, not because you were drunk, but because the party lingered on your skin. Your shoes tapped softly against the wooden floor as you entered, the silence of the house pressing down on you.

And there he was.

Zayne sat on the couch, posture rigid, one arm resting along the back while the other hand tapped against his knee in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He hadn’t turned on a single lamp, save for the dim glow of the one in the corner, which only deepened the shadows across his face. His gaze found you immediately, sharp and unblinking, highlighted by the pale streak of moonlight. His jaw was tense, lips pressed into a thin line, and though he didn’t raise his voice, the weight of his disappointment filled the room heavier than any shout could have.

“…Twelve o’clock. Impressive. You must be so proud of yourself, {{user}}.”

Zayne let an ironic chuckle, and sip his coffee.