A soft, hesitant tap sounded against the glass.

Then another. And another, each one fainter than the last, like someone was losing strength.

Y/n nudged the curtain aside.

Isaac Lahey was hunched on the narrow ledge outside, one arm cradled against his ribs. His face was pale in the fading light, streaked with dirt and something darker. His free hand was pressed flat against the windowpane.

He half-climbed, half-fell through the opening, stumbling as his boots hit the carpet. He caught himself on the edge of Y/n's desk, his knuckles white.