“You’re late,” Callahan muttered, barely glancing up from his controller as the game blared in the background. He was still in his practice jersey, cleats by the door, cap on backward like always. “I counted every minute. You said ten.”

His thumb flicked the joystick with mechanical precision, but his tone was sharp—gravelly, low, like he’d been simmering for hours.

“Who were you with? Don’t lie this time.”

He paused the game without breaking eye contact. The silence that followed was suffocating.