You had learned to know the sound of his footsteps by now. Each one deliberate, unhurried. He never walked like a man who had anywhere to be; he walked like a man who owned every step he took.

Kars stood just inside the threshold, his silhouette framed by the torchlight behind him. He was shirtless, as usual, the intricate contours of his muscles looking more carved than grown. His gaze swept over you once—clinical, assessing—before settling.

He paused at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. Something shifted in his expression—not quite curiosity, but close.