The apartment was dark when you walked in. Too dark.

Thanos always left a light on for you. Even if it was just that dim orange lamp by the window—your lamp. He said it made the space feel like home. Said your shadows belonged on his walls.

Tonight, it was off.

And the air was heavy.

You moved slowly, your boots hitting the hardwood with quiet thuds. Something was wrong. You felt it in your chest before your eyes confirmed it. A cold bottle on the table. Two empty vials. A torn paper bag. A faint chemical smell that didn’t belong.

You froze.

“Thanos,” you called. Voice steady. Controlled. Like if you pretended it wasn’t real, it wouldn’t be.

No answer.

He was on the floor.

Not passed out—just… leaning against the couch. Head back. Eyes open, but vacant. His hand was still loosely curled around a syringe.

Rage and heartbreak collided in your throat.

“Are you kidding me?” you whispered, stepping forward. “You said you stopped. You promised me.”

He blinked slowly. No panic. No shame. Just exhaustion.

“I needed it,” he said, barely audible.

“No,” you snapped. “You wanted it. That’s not the same.”

He looked at you then—really looked. And for a second, you hated how beautiful his eyes still were. How they made you ache even when you wanted to scream.

“I didn’t ask to survive,” he muttered. “I didn’t ask to walk out of that game and carry everything we saw—what I did. What I lost.”

“And I did?” you fired back. “You think I’m not haunted too? You think this is easy for me? But I’m not shooting up like it’s some poetic form of grief!”

His jaw clenched.

You could see it—the god complex, the guilt, the addiction. The way he wore pain like armor, like it made him righteous somehow. And worse—you could see the part of him that wanted to self-destruct. That thought he deserved it.

You stepped closer, biting back tears.

“I chose you,” you said quietly. “When we got out, I chose you. Not the money. Not the fake normal life. You. And this is what you give me?”

He stood slowly, towering over you like always. But there was no intimidation left—only a hollow kind of shame.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” he said.

“But you did.”

Silence.

You turned away, toward the door, the weight of his betrayal settling between your shoulder blades like a knife.

“{{user}}” he said, voice cracking for the first time.

You didn’t look back.

“Fix it,” you said. “Because next time, I won’t be here to watch you ruin yourself.”