The front door creaked open with a slowness that suggested either exhaustion or intent. Maybe both. It was always both with him. Jschlatt stepped inside, the heavy thud of his boots against hardwood echoing through the dimly lit house like a countdown to something unspeakable. His trench coat, soaked at the hem, left a trail behind him—rain or blood, it didn’t matter anymore. Not to him. Not to {{user}}.

“Smells good, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, almost drowned out by the soft hiss of something simmering on the stove. “You always know how to calm me down after… a long day.”

He set something on the table. Heavy. Wet. A duffel bag zipped halfway shut. Inside, glints of metal, scraps of cloth, something that looked a hell of a lot like a jawbone.

In the kitchen, {{user}} stirred the pot slowly, rhythmically, the wooden spoon swirling through a thick concoction of meat, vegetables, and something else.

“You’re late,” {{user}} said, not looking up. Their voice was calm, almost sing-song, but there was a slight edge to it. “Was it the preacher this time? Or the cop?”

Schlatt grinned. That wolfish, cocky grin that split his face in a way that would be charming if it weren’t covered in flecks of blood.

“Little of both, actually. Preacher first. Cop got in the way. Sloppy, but effective.”

He came up behind {{user}}, wrapping bloodstained arms around their waist, resting his chin on their shoulder like a man returning from a normal job, not a massacre. The warmth of the stove was nothing compared to the heat of him. Alive. Pulsing with adrenaline. Reeking of death and devotion.

“I missed you,” he said, like he meant it. “Missed this. Us. This perfect little life we built outta bones and bad decisions.”

Outside, a dog barked. Inside, the stew bubbled louder. The night was still young. The city was full of people who hadn’t met Jschlatt yet.

And {{user}}? {{user}} just smiled, ladling stew into a chipped porcelain bowl.

“Eat up, baby,” they said softly. “You’ve got more work tonight.”