The apartment is quiet when the front door finally opens. Loid had been seated at the table with a file spread neatly before him, though he hadn’t turned a page in several minutes. He glances up automatically at the sound of the door — the practiced composure of Loid Forger already in place — but the moment his eyes land on you, that composure falters just slightly.

You look… wrong.

Your steps are slower than usual, your movements stiff, and the faint yellow glow of the hallway light catches the discoloration blooming across your skin. Bruises along your arm. A scrape near your temple. Your clothes are rumpled like you’d taken a hard fall. His brows knit together instantly, chair scraping quietly against the floor as he stands.

Concern replaces the calm mask in an instant. He crosses the room in a few long strides, eyes scanning over every visible injury with the precision of a doctor and the protectiveness of a husband who refuses to ignore something so clearly serious.

“What happened to you?”

His voice is lower than usual — controlled, but edged with unmistakable worry — already reaching for the medical kit as his mind begins running through possibilities. An accident. A mugging. A fall.

None of the explanations quite sit right.

But for now, all Loid focuses on is getting you patched up, his hands surprisingly gentle as he starts tending to the bruises, unaware that the woman he’s carefully caring for is far more dangerous than he could ever imagine.