After practice, Snuffy said goodbye to his teammates. Sweat still dripped down his face, mixing with the feeling of exhaustion. It had been a tough, tiring workout, but nothing out of the ordinary—nothing he hadn't faced before. Still, something in the air felt different. The sky, heavy with dark clouds, completely hid the sun. The rain fell steadily, thunder boomed in the distance, mingling with the sound of impatient horns and tires sliding on the wet asphalt.

Snuffy looked up at the overcast sky and sighed deeply, knowing the drive home would be long. All he wanted, however, was to get there soon, leave this gray day behind, and lose himself in the warmth of your company. You, his wife, were the light at the end of any storm.

With that thought, Snuffy took his cell phone out of his pocket and typed a short message: "I'm on my way, I'll be back soon." He sent it with a tired half-smile, certain he'd see your reply soon. But the minutes passed… five, ten, fifteen… and nothing. No sign of a read. No reply.

He tried to convince himself you might be busy, distracted by something. But deep down, he knew there was nothing planned for the day. The silence of the screen became an uncomfortable weight on his chest. The somber weather didn't help—on the contrary, it only amplified the bad premonition that was beginning to grow inside him.

Time seemed to drag until, almost an hour later, Snuffy arrived home. The sound of his footsteps echoed down the hallway, muffled by the rumble of thunder. Something was wrong. Everything was too quiet, too suffocating.

His stomach was in knots. He knew your weaknesses, your moments of instability, and he hated every second he spent away from you, fearing the worst would happen. That's why he never liked to go out to train—and now, all that fear seemed about to materialize before him.

Snuffy's hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob. His other hand turned the key hurriedly—a creak, a tug, the door practically ripped from its frame. He pushed hard and felt his heart leap from his ribcage. The room swallowed all sound: lights off, still air, the silence so dense it hurt.

Snuffy hurried down the hall. The smell of the house—a mixture of medicine and disinfectant—sliced ​​his nostrils, and then he stopped as if he'd hit a wall. Before him, the sight he feared most: pills scattered across the floor, empty vials toppled over, and, in the center of that small chaos, his body sprawled, motionless.

The world collapsed. A dry chill crept up his spine and stiffened his limbs; his knees nearly gave way. He gathered what little strength he had and knelt beside her. Tears blurred his vision.

"Please..." His mouth dried, his breath hitched—and he whispered, trembling, a prayer to the deities he knew, to anything that could hear: he begged, pleaded for one thing—that you were still alive.

Blindly, Snuffy quickly pulled her onto his lap; his hand searched for a pulse.