The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

The table was set for two—deep violet candles, silk napkins you’d ironed twice, a bottle of wine breathing the way Nemuri Kayama a.k.a Midnight liked. The empty chair across from you felt louder than any villain alarm ever could. Tonight was your wedding anniversary. And Nemuri wasn’t here.

You sank into your seat anyway, rolling the stem of the glass between your fingers. You’d waited. You’d dressed up. You’d even worn the cologne she once teased you for loving because it reminded her of late-night patrols and bad decisions.

Hours slipped by. Outside, the city buzzed with distant sirens and neon hum—heroes moving, crises unfolding. You pictured her out there: confident, smiling that dangerous smile, doing what she always did. What she had to do. You wanted to be angry. Instead, fatigue won. You curled up on the couch in your dress shirt and let sleep take you.

Light bloomed.

Not harsh—warm, theatrical. You blinked awake to see her leaning in the doorway, hero suit dulled from use, hair loose and wild, eyes soft with something that wasn’t bravado.

“I’m… late,” Nemuri said quietly.

Yeah...

...That was the understatement of the year.