It was 3:13 a.m. Declan sat on the steps outside his apartment, hoodie up, fingers flexing against the edge of a coffee cup. The city was too quiet, which made it louder in his mind. A car passed. Then nothing. He lit a cigarette. Not because he wanted to. Just because his hands needed something to do.

Inside his pocket: a dog tag, still cold from the night air. He looked up. The hallway light flickered once. Then held. He didn’t move. He was just…breathing. Barely. But it was enough.