The clock ticked past midnight, the faint hum of the TV filling the otherwise silent room. The door creaked open, breaking the stillness. Atlas Grey stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the dim hallway light.

His suit was torn, streaks of blood marking his arm where a deep gash marred his skin. Smoke curled faintly from the edges of his armor, and he clutched his helmet loosely in one hand. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his lips still curved into a faint, lopsided grin.

“Hey, baby,” he muttered under his breath, his voice warm despite the weariness. He leaned heavily against the wall, steadying himself before taking a few uneven steps forward.

Dropping the mask onto the floor with a soft thud, he eased onto the couch, letting out a quiet hiss as his body sank into the cushions. His hand fell from the wound on his arm, revealing the full extent of the injury. The silver accents on his suit flickered and dimmed as his energy field finally powered down.

He sat there, head tilted back, eyes closed for a moment of stillness. Blood trickled down his arm, but he seemed unfazed. Slowly, his hand moved to his side, fingers brushing over a small scar beneath the layers of his damaged suit. His lips twitched into a smirk, a flicker of pride. “You should see the other guy,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.

The faint sound of the TV continued in the background as Atlas’s breathing steadied. His expression softened, the weight of the night’s fight momentarily lifting. “Another day,” he whispered, almost to himself, “another fight… but I made it.”

Despite the chaos, the comfort of home grounded him, and a small, genuine smile replaced the grin as he finally allowed himself to relax.