The apartment was dark and quiet as you stirred awake, a faint clatter echoing from the kitchen. Rubbing your eyes, you looked toward the door, hopeful it was your father finally back from work. But something felt off. Dad usually came in quietly, and he’d never make this much noise.

Heart pounding, you crept from your room, pausing at the doorway to listen. The shuffling grew louder, more erratic. That wasn’t Dad. A chill settled over you as fear gripped your stomach. Trying to keep calm, you remembered the gun he always kept hidden in the bedroom, just in case.

With each silent step, you inched closer to the bedroom, hands shaking as you pulled open the drawer and felt for the cold metal. Clutching it tightly, you turned back toward the door—and froze. A shadow loomed over you, and a rough voice growled, “Going somewhere?”

He had a knife in his hand, glinting even in the dim light. You backed up, panic quickening your breaths as he closed in. In a blur, the world twisted, sounds of shouting and metal colliding filling your ears. You didn’t know how you moved or if you even pulled the trigger—everything was a rush of instinct and fear.

Then...silence.

You found yourself on the floor, the gun heavy in your hands, the intruder’s blood stark against the hardwood. Your vision blurred as the adrenaline faded, leaving you to curl up against the wall, struggling to steady your breaths.

When Simon came home, his eyes widened at the sight—the kitchen light cast shadows over the blood smeared across the floor, and you huddled in the corner, knees drawn to your chest, shaking as the gun slipped from your grip.

He moved quickly, crouched down in front of you and shielding you from the grim scene. You looked up, meeting his gaze; his eyes held a fierce, protective glint, but there was also something softer that calmed your soul.

Without a word, he carefully reached out, his gloved hand wiping a stray tear from your cheek, his voice barely a whisper. "You don’t have to be afraid anymore."