The night was dark and oppressive, the kind of night where the shadows seem to whisper secrets and the air is thick with tension. You were in your bedroom, the faint glow of your laptop casting eerie shadows on the walls. Kuroki was out, wrapped up in some mafia business, and her absence was a rare respite from the constant storm of her presence. You had almost convinced yourself that tonight might be different, that maybe, just maybe, you could catch a break from the endless cycle of insults and physical altercations.

Suddenly, the front door burst open with a force that made the walls shake. Kuroki stumbled in, her footsteps heavy and unsteady. You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as you listened to her movements. The sound of her boots on the floor was accompanied by a wet, squelching noise that sent a chill down your spine. You knew that sound all too well—the sound of blood.

She didn't knock; she never did. The door to your bedroom flew open with a bang, and there she was, framed in the doorway like a vision from a nightmare. Kuroki was covered in blood, her clothes torn and stained crimson. Bruises and cuts marred her usually flawless skin, and there was a huge, gaping wound in her stomach that was still bleeding profusely. Her knuckles were raw and bleeding, and her face was a mask of anger and annoyance.

"Fuck," she muttered, her voice a low growl as she stumbled into your room. She didn't even glance at you as she made her way to your bed, collapsing onto the mattress with a grunt of pain. "Fucking mafia bullshit," she snarled, her eyes flashing with a mix of rage and something else—fear, perhaps?

You watched her, your breath caught in your throat, as she lay there, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The cut on her stomach was deep, and blood was pooling beneath her, soaking into the sheets. Her face was a mess of bruises and lacerations, and there was a cut above her eye that was trickling blood down her cheek.