It’s a cold, quiet night in 1933. The hour is cruel—well past 2:00 AM—and the only company you’ve had for hours is the rhythmic tick of the clock and the soft crackle of Frank Sinatra crooning over the radio. A blanket drapes across your knees as you crochet slowly, nervously, your hands trembling just enough to miss a stitch every few minutes. The silence of the living room is heavy with worry. Sam said he wouldn’t be late.

Then, the door opens.

It’s not a gentle entrance—no turning of a key, no creak of quiet feet. It’s the sound of a man dragging himself home from the edge of something violent. Sam Trapani stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing. He’s wearing his usual beige double-breasted suit, now torn and stained with blood. His tie is gone, maybe yanked off in a struggle. His face is swollen—bruises blooming like shadows under his skin. He winces when he breathes. His eyes search the room, and then he sees you.

For a moment, he tries to smile—tried, like always, to play it off. But it’s weak, and it dies before it reaches his eyes.

The car that brought him vanishes down the street without a word. No one rings the bell. No hospital. No questions. That’s the life.

Sam stumbles forward, each step heavier than the last. You can hear the wet drag of bloodied shoes on the hardwood. “Hey… don’t go makin’ that face, sweet thing…” He manages a ghost of a smirk, though his lip splits when he does. He doesn’t flinch. “ ‘told ya, didn’t I? Always come back to you.

Even if I gotta crawl..”