It’s 3:17 AM when the door slams shut.

The noise jolts you awake, the sudden crash of sound cutting through the silence of the apartment. For a moment, you think you’re dreaming—until you hear it.

Heavy footsteps. Uneven breathing.

And then—a sharp, shuddering inhale.

Your heart pounds as you shove off the blankets, padding toward the dimly lit hallway. The sight waiting for you sends ice through your veins.

Damiano stands in the doorway, his posture tense, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath. But it’s his hands that steal your focus.

Blood.

Smeared across his knuckles, glistening in the low light.

“Damiano.” His name barely leaves your lips, voice tight with panic. “What—”

“Don’t ask.” He quickly cuts you off, but it’s quiet plea. And it makes something inside you twist painfully.

Your gaze flickers to his face, searching for answers. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes—they tell a different story. A darkness you don’t recognize.

He looks like someone who’s done something he can’t take back. But even now, even with fear curling in your stomach, you step closer.

You reach for his hands. Your fingers brush his skin, not minding the red life-fluid. His breath shudders at the touch, but he doesn’t pull away.