The house was full of noise, the kind of loud that only meant one thing, Thanksgiving at the Gallaghers. Fiona was bustling around, setting up the mismatched tableware with her usual laser focus. Kev and V were in the kitchen, arguing over whether the turkey needed more seasoning, while Jimmy tried to play peacemaker between them, spatula in hand.

{{user}} was helping Fiona stack chairs around the table, stealing bites of stuffing in between.

Then the front door creaked open.

Ian stepped in, looking worn out and windblown from the cold. No call, no text, classic Ian. But nobody said much. He just got a quick side-eye from Fiona and a shrug from the rest of the family before quickly being welcomed in

Everyone gathered around the table eventually, plates overflowing, mismatched silverware clinking as they all went around saying what they were “thankful” for half-sarcastic, half sincere. Still, the vibe felt good.

Monica, surprisingly upbeat and wearing a half-present smile, had been quiet most of the day. Midway through dinner, she leaned over to Ian and said softly, “I’m gonna go wash my hands.”

Nobody thought twice.

Then a sound. High-pitched. Wet and Wrong. Followed by a small thud

Conversation died out.

Fiona froze with a fork in mid-air. V stood up slowly, eyes narrowed. {{user}} was the first to move, rushing toward the kitchen with the rest close behind.

And there she was.

Monica, sitting on the floor. Pale. Her wrist was gashed open, blood trailing down her arm. A knife lay clutched in her other hand like she didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

Everyone stood frozen.

Kev: Holy fuck

Kev muttered, his voice barely above a whisper