You hear the door click before you see him. Two soft locks undone in practiced rhythm, followed by the weight of boots on hardwood—heavy, tired, familiar. He doesn’t call out. He never does. Just moves through the apartment like it’s still his battlefield.

A pistol clatters onto the kitchen counter with a metallic thud, landing right next to the fruit bowl. You’re not surprised. The second glove lands on the couch, damp and stained, leaving a smear of red across the fabric. It’s not the first time he’s done this. Probably won’t be the last.

He walks in like this is normal—like dropping weapons on the furniture and bleeding through his jacket is just part of the routine. There’s a gash along his ribs, blood darkening the side of his shirt, and he’s got that same old half-worn hoodie on, the one that’s seen more rooftops than laundromats. One boot is unlaced. His knuckles are raw again. Of course they are.

You’re standing by the hallway, arms crossed, watching as he opens the fridge like nothing’s wrong, like your couch isn’t soaking up blood and your heart isn’t pounding in your throat.

“You bleeding again?” you ask, flat.

He glances at you, shrugs one shoulder. “Not mine,” he says, like that makes a difference.

There’s a silence after that. A weight that settles into the room—not tense, exactly, but charged. He leans against the counter, sipping from a water bottle like he didn’t just come back looking like he crawled out of a war zone. He hasn’t asked how your day was. He probably won’t. But he’s here, which has to count for something.

Your eyes drift to the helmet sitting crooked on the table, next to a half-empty bag of ammo. Another night. Another mess. Another line crossed.