The key scraped against the lock for entirely too long before the door finally swung inward. Simon practically stumbled over the threshold, his broad shoulder knocking into the hallway wall with a heavy, clumsy thud.

He wasn't in his kit; just a dark, zip-up hoodie and jeans, the left sleeve pushed up just enough to reveal the dark ink of the military skulls and dropping bomb tattooed on his forearm. But he looked like he was weighed down by a ton of bricks. When he stepped fully into the dim light of the living room, the smell hit you before he even spoke. The harsh, bitter stench of cheap liquor rolled off him in waves, entirely masking his usual scent of soap and laundry detergent.

Your stomach immediately dropped. Simon almost never drank. He strictly avoided it, terrified of succumbing to the same ugly addiction that had poisoned his abusive father and nearly ruined his brother, Tommy. For him to smell like the bottom of a whiskey bottle meant something had gone catastrophically wrong.

His face was bare. He never wore his black medical mask or balaclava when it was just the two of you, but right now, his features looked completely hollowed out. His usually sharp, observant brown eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, and unfocused. The scars across his jaw stood out starkly against how pale and sick he looked under the flush of the alcohol.

You took an instinctual step forward, reaching a hand out as concern flooded your chest. "Simon...?"

He jerked back like you'd burned him, violently swatting your hand away.

"Don't!" he barked, his voice terrifyingly loud in the quiet apartment. "Just—back the fuck off! Quit hovering over me, I don't need your damn pity! Just leave it alone!"

You flinched, shrinking back on instinct from the sheer volume and the sudden, aggressive venom in his tone.

That tiny movement—your flinch—was a physical blow. The ugly, defensive rage drained from his bare face in a fraction of a second, leaving behind a hollow, terrifying panic. His breath hitched violently. He stared at his own shaking hands, and then up at your wide eyes, realising exactly who he had just sounded like. His father.

His legs gave out entirely. Six-foot-two of hardened muscle simply crumpled.

His knees hit the hardwood with a harsh thud, but he didn't even seem to feel it. He scrambled forward on his knees, his large, calloused hands desperately grabbing handfuls of your shirt, gripping the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned stark white. He buried his face hard into your stomach, hiding from your gaze.

"God... no," he choked out, the sound tearing out of his throat, wet, ugly, and completely broken. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, please don't look at me like that." He pressed his forehead harder against you, his massive shoulders beginning to heave as the alcohol and the suffocating grief finally dragged him under.

His voice cracked, dropping into a devastated, agonising whisper. "It's Johnny... Johnny's gone. Soap is dead, and I couldn't do a damn thing to save him."