Luigi hesitated at the door before pushing it open.

The smell hit him first—stale alcohol, rotting food, something sour. Bottles littered the floor, some shattered, their contents dried into sticky stains. The walls bore fresh holes, cracks spiderwebbing through the plaster.

His foot nudged a broken plate. The couch was covered in a crumpled blanket, abandoned mid-use. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes, trash stacked high, flies buzzing. It didn’t feel like a home anymore. It felt like a graveyard.

Then, a sound from down the hall.

Luigi followed it, heart pounding. He reached {{user}}’s door, cracked open just enough.

They sat slumped against the bed, a bottle limp in their grip, clothes rumpled, dark circles hollowing out their face. Their eyes stared ahead, unfocused. They weren’t here.

Luigi stepped inside, crouching. “Hey.”

Nothing.

He reached out, gripping their wrist. A weak flinch.

His breath caught. This wasn’t just grief. This was someone waiting for their body to catch up with what their mind had already decided.

His grip tightened. “I ain’t gonna let you go like this.”