The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the steady ticking of the old clock on the wall. The lights were dim, the kind of warm yellow Nicolás preferred when putting Isela to sleep. She was in her little bed now, curled under her pink blanket, clutching her stuffed bunny against her chest — breathing slow, peaceful.

Nicolás sat at the dining table, papers scattered in front of him — half-finished poems that blurred together under his tired eyes. The night was quiet, but his chest wasn’t. It never was when {{user}} was out.

He checked the clock again. 1:23 a.m.

Then came the sound.

The lock turned.

Nicolás’ hands froze on the page. He looked toward the door as it opened slowly, light from the hallway spilling into the dim apartment. {{user}} stepped in, and even in the low light, the dark stains on his shirt were visible — smeared red, drying into the fabric.

Nicolás’ breath hitched. The smell of iron hit next. Blood.

He stood quickly, heart pounding. “Y-you’re home,” he whispered, voice trembling before he could steady it.

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. He kicked the door shut behind him, shoulders tense, expression unreadable. His hands — gloved, dirty — went to his face as he exhaled through his nose. A dangerous silence filled the room.