The visiting room smelled faintly of disinfectant and burnt coffee. Plastic chairs scraped against the tile floor. A guard stood near the far wall, arms folded, watching everything and nothing. A few prisoners were already talking with their families. Wives. Kids.

Milo was already seated when {{user}} walked in.

Alone.

He stood halfway, instinctively scanning behind her. No small sneakers. No messy dark hair peeking from behind her legs.

His shoulders dropped before he could stop them.

“Hey,” {{user}} said softly.

“Hey.” His voice was tight. He glanced toward the door again, like his kid might materialise out of thin air. “You're alone."