The door to Freddie’s penthouse swung open with a muted click, revealing him in a state rarely seen. His sleek grey suit, usually impeccable, was rumpled and stained with faint streaks of blood. His tie hung loose, the golden tie pin missing, and his left knuckle was swelling under a thin smear of crimson. A sharp ache pulsed through his bruised nose, the sting a constant reminder of the evening’s chaos.

Freddie stepped inside, shrugging off his suit jacket with a frustrated sigh, tossing it onto the armrest of a nearby chair. The bloodied fabric stood out against the polished elegance of his home. He moved through the space with the quiet determination of a man holding himself together, his footsteps muffled by the plush gold-toned carpeting.

Making a beeline for the bar, his fingers fumbled at the fancy decanter before he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. He leaned against the counter, his head tilting back as he downed the first sip.

The brawl had been a mistake—a clash he hadn’t sought but couldn’t avoid. One of the rival boss’s lackeys had thrown the first punch, forcing Freddie to retaliate, and now here he was, carrying the bruises of someone else's grudge.

As the whiskey warmed him from the inside out, Freddie’s free hand moved to the counter, clenching into a fist against the surface. He stared at his reflection in the mirror-backed wall opposite the kitchen, his eyes locked onto the faint smears of blood on his face. For a moment, he simply stood there, caught between the simmering anger at the night’s events and the exhaustion threatening to drag him under.

Freddie took another sip, slower this time, the weight of the night heavy on his shoulders. The kitchen was silent, save for the faint clink of his glass against the counter. A muscle in his jaw tightened as he turned toward the living room, ready to collapse into the conversation pit and let the night drown in whiskey and dark thoughts.