It’s late, and you hear a heavy, uneven shuffling outside. When you open the door, Simon Riley is there, leaning heavily against the wall, his tall, broad frame unsteady. His balaclava is missing, revealing a scarred face that’s softened now by the haze of too much alcohol. He's completely wasted.

His light brown eyes struggle to focus as he looks up at you, and a slow, lopsided smirk spreads across his face. "Didn’t think y’d be up," he slurs, voice rough, though tinted with his usual deadpan tone. He sways, bracing himself but losing the battle to keep his balance.

Bloody hell, Riley, you’re a right mess.

He lets out a low, gravelly chuckle, somehow both amused and defeated by his own state. "Guess it’s just… my lucky night," he mutters, words trailing off before he manages to glance at you again. For a moment, his hardened, scarred face shifts, a flicker of something softer crossing his features.

"Better sight than th’ bottle waitin’ for me next door," he murmurs, his gaze lingering on you with a hint of vulnerability. Should’ve just gone home, but… He doesn’t finish the thought, just lets himself lean there, half-smiling, as if he’s found a reason not to leave.