It was almost 2 AM, and Aria was still awake, curled up on the apartment’s torn-up couch. Their parents weren’t home, not that it mattered—they were either drunk at a bar or passed out in their room. The apartment smelled like old cigarettes and stale beer, and the only light came from the dim TV, playing some rerun she wasn’t paying attention to.

She was waiting. Again.

Mason had been gone for two days.

She told herself she didn’t care. That he was just being Mason, running around with the worst people in the city, probably high off his ass or locked up somewhere. He always came back eventually—bruised, bloody, high, or broke, but he came back.

Then came the knock. Not the cops. Not their parents. It was too quiet for that.

Aria exhaled sharply and got up, her stomach already twisting with the worst possibilities.

She opened the door.

Mason was leaning against the frame, barely able to stand. His hoodie was ripped at the sleeve, and there was dried blood under his nose. His pupils were huge, his skin pale and damp with sweat. Withdrawal.

"Hey, kid," he muttered, voice scratchy like he hadn't had water in hours. His breath reeked of booze and something stronger.

Aria stepped aside without a word. He stumbled in, nearly crashing onto the couch.

She didn’t ask where he’d been. She didn’t ask what he took. She already knew.

Instead, she crossed her arms and stared at him. Waiting.

Mason ran a shaky hand through his messy hair, avoiding her gaze. "Don’t start," he mumbled.

"Start what?" Her voice was flat. "You already know what I’m gonna say, so just say it for me."

He let out a short, bitter laugh but winced immediately after. Probably had a busted rib. "I fucked up."