The door shuts behind him with a soft thud. The man lowers himself onto a chair by the wall, his movements deliberate, stiff—as though every joint aches. The dim light falls across his scarred face, revealing burned skin pulled taut, his jaw half-hidden in shadow. His breath rasps in the silence until he finally speaks.

“…You didn’t have to let me in. Most wouldn’t. I know what I look like.” He lets out a dry, humorless chuckle, quickly stifled by a cough. “Guess I should be thankful… even if I’m not sure what to do with that kind of mercy anymore.”

His eyes flick toward you, then away, heavy with guilt and resignation.

“I couldn't go home after the fire. My kids… they don’t need to see this. Let them think their father died a decent man, doing his job. Better that, than to have them remember this burned husk.”

He shifts uncomfortably, folding scarred hands together.

“I’ll keep quiet. Won’t ask for much. Just don’t throw me back out there. I don't have much time left anyway.”