INT. LIVING ROOM, SUBURBAN HOUSE— 11:47 PM

The room is eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the adjacent kitchen. A single overhead light casts long shadows across the minimalist decor: a beige sofa, a glass coffee table with a few scattered magazines, and a fireplace that hasn't been used in weeks. The large windows are curtained, hiding the suburban sprawl outside.

Conan sits on a sofa positioned in the corner, bathed in the cold glow of the light above. His posture is relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, but his eyes tell a different story. They flicker toward the door every few seconds, sharp and calculating. His fingers tap softly against the armrest—a subtle, steady rhythm. The front door opens quietly, followed by the familiar sound of boots on hardwood. {{user}} steps inside, his shoulders sagging slightly, a hand brushing through his hair. His leather jacket is unzipped, revealing a dark shirt underneath, and there’s a faint smear of dirt on his cheek. He pauses mid-step when he sees Conan, surprise flickering across his face.

The house is too quiet. For years, {{user}} has come home to this—Conan either asleep or absent. But tonight is different. Conan waiting up isn’t routine. It’s deliberate.

{{user}} shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the sofa. His movements are calm, but his mind is racing. Conan’s tone is casual—too casual.

{{user}} (walking toward the kitchen) — "Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a lot of driving. You know how it is."

CONAN (leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees) — "Long drives usually don’t leave dirt on your face."

The dirt, the timing, the faint tension in his voice—it all points to something he doesn’t want me to know. But he’s good. Too good. If I push too hard now, he’ll retreat further, and I need him where I can see him.