The storm outside had calmed, but the city never slept. Rainwater streaked the windows, catching the flicker of neon signs from the street below. You didn’t hear him come in — you never do. But then there’s the faint sound of metal, the click of a lighter, and the smell of smoke curling through the silence.

“You really should lock your doors,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. He leans against the doorway, cigarette balanced between his fingers, his gaze steady and unbothered — like he’s been here for hours, waiting.

The glow from the lighter briefly catches his face — sharp jaw, scar along his lip, eyes that look like they’ve seen too much. “Your father’s worried,” he adds, almost like it’s a joke he doesn’t care to laugh at. “That makes one of us.”

You start to say something, but he moves — slow, deliberate, cutting the distance between you in a few easy steps. The air shifts with him. He’s close enough now that you can smell the rain clinging to his jacket, the faint trace of smoke and metal that never really leaves him.

“Starting tomorrow,” he says, tone matter-of-fact but quiet enough to draw you in, “I go where you go. Work, home, late-night grocery runs — you don’t breathe without me knowing where you are.”

His eyes meet yours — unreadable, steady, dangerous in how calm they are. “Don’t make that face,” he murmurs, a hint of something like amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

He exhales smoke between his teeth, the corner of his lip lifting just slightly. “Still,” he says, stepping past you toward the window, “I’ve had worse assignments.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Much worse.”