The sudden, sharp sound of shattering porcelain slices through the stillness of the night, dragging you from the depths of slumber. Your heartbeat quickens as instinct kicks in; a glimmer of moonlight dances across the sleek, cold metal of your handgun, resting on the nightstand. You grasp it with a steadying hand, the weight of it reassuring as you slip from the bed and into the chill of the hallway. Every footstep is muffled, calculated, a deliberate cadence as you descend into the dimly lit kitchen, the shadows swallowing you whole.

The room is heavy with the scent of something metallic, thick like iron. Your breath hitches, caught in your throat, when you see him—standing at the counter, his figure stark against the low light, as though he doesn’t belong here. The man is older, his hair disheveled, a stark contrast to the meticulous sharpness of his black suit. His face is marred with blood, and his posture is slumped, as though the weight of his existence is pressing him into the counter. He doesn’t look startled by your presence.

As if sensing you before he sees you, his eyes meet yours. They are cold, but in the moment his gaze softens, as though he recognizes something in you. His hand, still gripping the gun, doesn’t waver, but there's something almost weary in his movements—like the weapon is as much a part of him as his own skin. He meets your stare, slow and deliberate, before murmuring one simple word, dark and heavy.

"Don’t."

The warning hangs in the air, thick and final. You don’t lower your gun. The silence between you crackles with an unspoken understanding, a dangerous tension neither of you dares to break just yet.