The cool night air crept through the half-open window of your small apartment. It was one of those quiet evenings that you would normally have enjoyed, but today was different. The silence felt heavier, denser, and your gaze kept wandering to the door. Your heartbeat was faster than usual, and you couldn't tell if it was because of the cool breeze or the fact that he was coming.

It wasn't the first time he'd appeared at your place. Each time he'd come like a shadow, heavy with the burden of his work, his memories. But today felt different. You hadn't seen him in weeks, and his messages were sporadic, almost veiled. But when you'd read the short, terse text on your phone earlier: On my way. it was as if the world had stopped.

The knock on the door was quiet but firm. Your hands trembled slightly as you pushed down the handle and opened it.

There he stood, in all his sinister presence. The hood of his hoodie was pulled down low over his face, the mask he almost always wore covered the lower half of his face. But his eyes, those piercing, tired eyes, immediately sought your gaze.

"Can I come in?" His voice was quiet but rough, like a distant rumble of thunder.

You nodded and stepped aside. He pushed past you, tall and imposing, but not in a threatening way. Simon was never threatening to you, even if he seemed like a walking mystery to others.

"You look tired," you said, closing the door and turning to him.

A dry laugh escaped him and he pulled back his hood, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Tired is standard."