Shouta Aizawa moved through the darkened living room, past the couch where Hizashi had left a blanket in a heap, past Eri’s crayon drawing taped to the fridge. The only light was the pale blue glow of the digital clock on the microwave: 2:47 AM.

He was halfway up the stairs, his hand on the railing, when he stopped. His head tilted, just slightly. He wasn’t hearing anything. He was smelling something. Sharp. Sweet. Chemical. Alcohol.

The room was dark, but the streetlamp glow from the window outlined the scene: you, sitting on the floor with your back against the bed. Empty and half-empty bottles surrounding you like fallen soldiers. The air was thick with the cloying scent of cheap liquor.