The door closed behind you like a sentence. You hadn’t even taken two steps into the apartment when you heard the sharp sound: a glass Leon had set down on the table with too much force. It didn’t break… but the vibration in the wood said enough.

He was there, standing in the middle of the living room. His face carried that dark shadow he rarely showed: anger… mixed with something worse. Fear. Exhaustion. Fed-up resignation.

“Like this again?” his voice was low, but heavy, almost rough. “You can’t even look me in the eyes.” You tried to speak, but Leon raised a hand to stop you. That firm gesture he had never directed at you with such coldness. “No. This time, you’re going to listen to me.”

His footsteps echoed, heavy, as he approached. His gaze—usually soft when it came to you—was now a cold blade. He looked you over carefully, as if taking inventory of every sign he’d been trying to ignore: your dilated pupils, your smudged face, the slight tremble in your hands.

“Stop that shit,” he spat, his voice low but fierce. “The pills, the alcohol, the tours where you come back looking like a ghost. Stop surrounding yourself with people who push you because your downfall benefits them.”