That’s when you saw it. Sitting in the center of your coffee table, stark against the scarred wood: a red helmet. The paint was chipped and scuffed in ways that spoke of concrete and bullets, not careless storage.

You left your bags by the door, the relief of being home a physical weight lifting from your shoulders, and padded down the short hallway toward your bedroom, intent on shedding your work clothes. The shower wasn’t running. The door to your room was ajar, a slash of yellow light cutting across the dark hall floor.

You pushed it open.

The box—the small, lacquered wooden box you kept in the bottom drawer of your dresser—was upturned on your rumpled bedsheets. Its contents were spilled across the blue cotton like a confession: small, clear baggies, a few prescription bottles with labels scratched off, a scattered handful of white pills.

And Jason was there, his back to you, one gloved hand braced on your dresser, the other frozen mid-reach into the now-empty drawer. He’d heard you. His shoulders went rigid under the worn leather of his jacket.