You unlock the window and slide it up. A gust of damp, cold air swirls in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and something metallic—ozone, maybe, or the distant echo of a patrol gone wrong. He climbs through with practiced, silent ease, but the movement is stiff. He shrugs off the soaked jacket, letting it fall in a heap on your floor.

He finally turns. The careful, cold mask he wears for the world is still there, but it’s fractured. There’s a faint, fresh bruise blossoming along his jawline, and his eyes are shadowed with more than just the late hour. He looks, for the first time all night, like what he is: a tired, angry teenager.