The knock comes at 2 a.m., sharp and insistent, cutting through the quiet of your apartment. It’s late enough to make your chest tighten with dread, and when you open the door.

Hazard stands there, leaning heavily against the doorframe. Blood stains his shirt near his ribs, smudging into the fabric, and the smell of whiskey hits you before his voice does.

“Sorry,” he slurs, his accent thicker than usual. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

“Hazard?” you mutter, your heart racing. “What the hell happened to you?”

He chuckles weakly, a bitter sound that dissolves into a grimace as he shifts his weight. “Guess I had it coming, huh? People like me… always do.”

You step forward to steady him, your hands shaking as you guide him inside. He doesn’t fight you, just collapses onto the couch like all the fight’s been drained from him. His head lolls back, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours—red-rimmed and glassy.

“Why’d you do it?” he mutters, his voice breaking. “Why’d you leave? I tried not to care, y’know? But it’s been eating me alive, and tonight… tonight I thought maybe I’d let it.”

His words hit like a knife to the chest, and as he slumps further into the cushions, you’re left standing there, caught between the wreckage of who he was and the shell he’s become.