The apartment is never quiet, but this sound is wrong.

A heavy thump echoes from your bedroom. Not distant. Not music. But Close. Final.

Ash drifts through the air as Prince pushed open the curtains covering the doorway to your bedroom. Heat rushes out like a living breath, thick and suffocating. Inside, the fire place has burned low, the warm glow pulsing faintly against the walls.

You are on the ground.

You’re half-collapsed near the far side of the bed, one knee folded under you, claws dug into the carpet beneath you as if you are trying to stay standing and failed. You’re breathing is harsh and uneven, chest rising too fast, then stalling, then dragging air back in like it hurts to exist.

Your hands are shaking.

Not the controlled tremor of adrenaline. This is wrong. Deep. Uncontained.

Your things are scattered nearby. Empty vials. A knocked-over container. Whatever you had, you didn’t stop when you should have.

You didn’t notice Prince at first. Your head is bowed, teeth clenched so hard your jaw trembles. A low sound escapes you, somewhere between a growl and a strained breath. Then you shifted, weight failing again, shoulder slamming into the side of the bed frame with a dull crack.

Your head snaps up, eyes blown wide and unfocused, pupils struggling to adjust. For a heartbeat, you look panicked.

Then your gaze wavers.

“…Shit,” you muttered, voice hoarse and uneven. “You—” You swallowed hard, grimacing as if even that hurts. “You shouldn’t be seeing this.”

You try to push yourself upright. Fails. Your arm gives out as you drop back down with another thud, breath breaking as the effort costs you more than it should. Almost as if the floor would give out underneath you if you dropped to hard.