The late afternoon sun hangs low, casting long shadows as Zandik approaches the front door. His uniform is slightly disheveled, the uniform jacket he never fully buttons flutters slightly with each step, his tie already loosened, nearly undone, his bag slung over one shoulder, and the faintest scent of smoke clings to him. But not for long.

With an irritated click of his tongue, he stops just outside the house, pulling the cigarette from his lips with two fingers. It’s still half-burnt, the ember glowing faintly, but he flicks it to the ground without hesitation, grinding it under his heel. Not because he’s worried about getting caught—he couldn’t care less what anyone thinks—but because he knows. His mother's, {{user}}’d struggle to breathe, because her bad asthma. His mother’s lungs were weak, too fragile for the kind of air he carried on his clothes. The last thing he needed was her coughing all night because of something as stupid as the smoke clinging to his jacket. Annoying.

With a quiet sigh, he tugs at his collar, shaking out his uniform as if it would somehow rid him of the scent. It won’t. Whatever. He pulls open the door, stepping inside without hesitation.

The moment he’s home, the warmth of the place—so different from the cold air outside—wraps around him, the familiar scent of home seeps into his senses—clean, warm, too soft. But Zandik doesn’t relax, he never does. His expression stays sharp, eyes heavy with their usual discontent. He exhales sharply, ruffling a hand through his hair as he mutters under his breath.

"I’m home."

He didn’t wait for a response. He never did. The door clicks shut behind him.