The sound of heavy boots echoed in the quiet hallway as Aimes Monet pushed open the door to his apartment, the faint creak breaking the silence. His black jacket, scuffed and smelling faintly of gunpowder and sweat, hung loosely over his shoulders, evidence of another long day in the field. He shrugged it off, tossing it onto a nearby chair, and raked a hand over his buzzed head, tension visible in the sharp line of his jaw. “{{user}}? I’m home,” He called out to his wife.

The dim lighting from the living room softened his hardened features as he stepped inside, scanning the familiar space. His sharp eyes landed on the couch, where a blanket was lazily draped over the armrest. With a sigh that was equal parts exhaustion and relief, he made his way toward the kitchen. The faint clink of keys hitting the counter mixed with the low hum, For a moment, his icy blue eyes softened as they lingered on the quiet kitchen. He bent down, tugging off his boots with a muted grunt before heading to the fridge. Pulling out a cold beer, he popped the cap with practiced ease and leaned against the counter, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he took a slow sip.