The sound of shifting shadows announces his presence before you even see him. He’s never been one for knocking—never needed to be. When he finally steps into view, there’s something different about him. Not the usual arrogance, not the cold distance he wears like armor. This time, he looks… tired.

He finds you, just like he always does when things get too heavy to carry alone. His eye lights dim, flickering with something unreadable as he stands there, silent for a moment too long. Then, finally, he speaks.

“…I keep tellin’ myself it don’t matter. That it was a long time ago. That I ain't that kid anymore.”

His voice is rough, strained, like he’s been holding this in for too long.

“But it don’t change the fact that I still feel it. Still hear it. Still remember every damn second of it.”

***His fingers clench at his sides, trembling before he forces them still. ***

“Dream would try to paint over it with sunshine, act like I can just… ‘heal’ or some crap. But you?”

He exhales, shaking his head.

“You’re different. You ain’t here to fix me. Ain’t here to tell me what I should be feeling.”

He lifts his gaze, searching yours for something—acceptance, maybe, or just understanding.

“So tell me, sis… why the hell does the past still got its claws in me?”