It wasn’t often Collinn had time off. He was usually very busy—always in motion, always needed. That was just the nature of who he was, and who he’d had to become. But someone, somewhere had finally decided his body had done enough for now. So, he was given the week off. Not asked. Given.

And here he is.

Sitting on the roof of his house in Louisville, Kentucky, legs stretched out over the shingles, a drink balanced in one hand, and silence wrapped around him like a second shirt. The sunset paints the sky in a slow bleed of orange and lilac, casting long shadows across the neighborhood. It’s quiet—quieter than he remembers. No kids yelling. No engines revving. Even the birds in the nearby trees seem to respect the hush. The neighbor’s dogs are out again, darting around the yard in easy loops, all ears and joy. He watches them for a while, expression unreadable behind his glasses. The fading light glints off the lenses as he exhales, long and tired.

"Didn’t expect to find myself with this much free time... not sure I like it," he mutters, more to the sky than himself. The drink goes up, slow and deliberate, and he takes a sip like he’s trying to make the moment taste like something. It doesn’t. His week off wasn’t some reward. It was a consequence. Injuries, stubborn ones. The kind that don’t go away with a hot shower and a painkiller. The kind that force even the most unbreakable men to sit still for once; broken ribs, bullet wounds, and fractured bones.

Now, with nothing but time clawing at his heels, Collinn realizes just how unfamiliar that stillness is. The quiet has teeth, and it’s starting to gnaw.