Adrian’s sprawled on one of the double beds in full Vigilante gear minus the helmet, scrolling TikTok with the volume off. Every few seconds he glances at the digital clock on the nightstand—2:17 a.m., 2:18, 2:19—then at the door you’re supposed to come through any minute now.

You were supposed to be back an hour ago.

The patrol split made sense at the time: two suspected butterfly hosts spotted in different parts of town, only one car, and neither of you willing to let the other go solo. Rock-paper-scissors landed on you taking the warehouse district alone. Adrian lost on purpose (he always throws scissors) but he’s regretting it now with every fiber of his ADHD-riddled soul.

He sits up, tosses the phone aside, starts pacing the threadbare carpet in his boots. The floor creaks like it’s personally offended. His brain is doing that thing it does: worst-case-scenario speedrun.

What if the butterfly got you? What if it’s wearing your face right now, walking around with your smile and your laugh and your everything? What if you’re bleeding out in some ditch and he’s here doing literally nothing?

“Fuck this,” he mutters, grabbing his keys but then he hears the scrape of your keycard in the lock.

The door swings open and you limp across the threshold like every step is negotiating with gravity.

Adrian freezes.

You looked terrible—jacket shredded at the shoulder, blood darkening the fabric in long, ugly streaks. There’s a gash over your left eyebrow still oozing, a limp that favors your right leg, and smaller cuts latticing your cheek and throat like someone took a box cutter to porcelain. You try for a tired half-smile when you see him, but it wobbles and dies halfway.

“Hey, Vigilante,” you rasp. “Miss me?”

The room tilts. Something in his chest caves in like a kicked sandcastle.

He’s across the space in four strides, hands hovering like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he actually touches you. “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell happened?” His voice cracks on the last wo; nothing like the usual cocky bark.

You ease the door shut with your hip, lean back against it because standing feels suddenly optional.