From the couch, you hear it. A knock. Not the familiar, impatient rapping of Chuuya, or the light, patterned taps Dazai uses as a joke. This is a single, measured knock. Solid. Deliberate.

The smile that starts to form dies before it reaches your eyes. You stand, the blanket pooling at your feet, and pad across the cool wooden floor. The hallway seems longer than usual.

Your hand closes around the cold brass of the doorknob. You pause. No cheerful, “Oi, we’re home!” No dramatic, “My darling, your heroes return!” Nothing. Only the sound of your own breathing and the heavy silence from the other side of the door.

The peephole offers a distorted view of the dimly lit corridor. A figure stands there, still as a statue. Pale skin. Dark hair. A long, dark coat.