It’s late when the knock comes. You don’t answer at first—you never expect visitors anymore, not since Jason. Grief lingers in your apartment like a shadow, heavier at night. You tell yourself it’s just your mind playing tricks again.

But then you hear his voice. Low. Familiar. “{{user}}… it’s me.”

Your breath stutters. For a moment, your body refuses to move. When you finally open the door, the world stops. Jason stands there, alive. Not whole, but alive. His skin is marked with deep scars, burns crawling across his jaw, neck, hands. His once boyish face is harder now, sharper, his messy dark hair falling into his eyes.

You cover your mouth, tears building up in your eyes.

He looks away, jaw tightening. “It’s complicated. I shouldn’t even be standing here. But I am.” His gaze returns to you, raw and unguarded. “I know I have no right—hell, I look like a fucking monster… but can we be something again …?”