Shards of a shattered vase glint under the harsh overhead light. A chair lies on its side, one leg splintered. The air is thick with the smell of burnt sugar and anger.

You're backed against the hallway wall, your palm stinging from where you slapped him. His chest heaves, sweat-damp spikes of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. His crimson eyes are wild, blown wide, fixed on you with that familiar, terrifying intensity.

He's blocking the front door. His whole body is a wall of muscle and rage, shaking with it.