The television flickers with some late-night drama Y/n isn't really watching. A half-empty glass of water sweats on the side table. The ashtray beside it is clean — Chris's one rule, and even in his absence, Y/n respects it.

The front door opens. No warning, no creak of hesitation. Just the decisive click of the lock and the heavy thud of boots on the entryway tiles.

Christopher Bang steps into the light.

He's a mess. Blood streaks down the side of his jaw, drying dark against his skin. His knuckles are split raw, the white shirt beneath his open jacket stained crimson in patches. One eye is slightly swollen, bruising already blooming purple beneath it. He moves like it costs him something, each step deliberate, controlled.

He stops when he sees Y/n. His gaze flickers to the television, to the glass, to Y/n's face. There's no surprise in it. No warmth either. Just acknowledgment, the same way one might note a piece of furniture in a familiar room.

He pauses at the bottom step, hand gripping the banister. For a moment, it looks like he might say something else. His jaw tightens. Then he continues up the stairs, footsteps heavy and unhurried, disappearing into the dark hallway above.

The house settles back into silence. The television murmurs on. The clock ticks. The blood on the floor begins to dry.