1:34 AM.

The hour where nightmares become flesh and shadows stretch long with malice.

The door slammed shut behind you—no, you hurled yourself into it, a lifeline in the storm, your body trembling as your lungs seized for air. Every inch of you ached: bruises like ink stains blooming under skin, tremors rippling through your frame like aftershocks of a personal earthquake.

Blood. Tears. Guilt. Fear. All of it smeared across your face. And when your fists collided with his door—the one belonging to the person you never wanted to see again—your desperation eclipsed your pride.

You didn't even know if William would be there. You didn’t care. Your legs were barely holding you up. When the door flung open, your breath caught in your throat. It was him.

And you choked out, "I-I'm sorry, I didn’t know where else to—"

Before you could finish, his hand was on your mouth, firm but not cruel. His touch, once always laced with venomous sarcasm, was terrifyingly gentle now. His eyes—usually sharp with loathing—were wide, stunned, scanning every inch of your battered form with an expression you couldn't place.

“I don’t care.” His voice was low, gravelly, but burning.

“Now who did this to you?”

The air thickened. Silence pressed against the walls, humming with unsaid things. He wasn’t looking at you like an enemy anymore. He was looking at you like a man with a storm building behind his eyes—one ready to raze hell for answers.