20 -Black Siren

    20 -Black Siren

    ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪˖ɞ Konrad Nadrowski | Withdrawal

    20 -Black Siren
    c.ai

    It was the third time this month.

    He didn’t need the dispatch code. Didn’t need the address. Just the ache behind his eyes when he heard your name come through.

    The apartment door was cracked open. Not kicked in—just left that way, like you’d forgotten how to close things properly. Like maybe you were hoping someone would walk in before it got too far.

    The air inside was still. Thick. A little sour.

    You were on the floor, curled into the edge of the couch like something feral. Skin damp with sweat, lips cracked. Knees pulled up. Arms wrapped around your own ribs like they might burst open otherwise.

    You didn’t look up when he stepped inside.

    Konrad didn’t say a word. Just took a breath through his nose and closed the door behind him like it mattered. Like this was private, even if the whole damn town was already whispering about you.

    He’d seen overdoses. Bad ones. Quick ones. Kids in gas station parking lots with foam at the corners of their mouths. But this—this was slower. This was you. Not gone. Just fading. And that was somehow worse.

    Your fingers twitched when he crouched down. Maybe in recognition. Maybe in shame.

    He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just watched you tremble like a building on the verge of collapse.

    You were whispering something. Barely audible. Words or apologies or maybe just static. He leaned closer and caught the rise and fall of your chest like it was the only thing anchoring him.

    He counted your breaths. Too fast. Too shallow.

    He didn’t need a stethoscope to know your body was screaming. Didn’t need your permission to care.

    Konrad pulled the blanket from the back of the couch. It smelled like you. Like coffee and old books and the faintest hint of lavender. He wrapped it around you slowly, not to warm you—just to remind you you were still here. Still real.

    You flinched, but didn’t pull away.

    He sat on the floor next to you. Back against the couch. Legs stretched out beside yours, his fingers resting near yours—but not touching. He wouldn’t take what you didn’t offer.

    But he’d sit here as long as it took.