Rain taps against the windowpane. Steady. Rhythmic. The kind of rain that makes the house feel smaller.

Abby’s door is cracked open down the hall. A sliver of darkness. She’d fallen asleep during The Little Mermaid again, sprawled across her bed with a stuffed bunny clutched to her chest.

Mike’s leg bounces. He’s not really watching. Just waiting.

Then—

DING-DONG.

The doorbell cuts through the quiet like a blade. Sharp. Too loud for this hour.

Mike frowns. Glances at the clock. 11:47 PM.

He gets up anyway. The floorboards creak under his steps. Peephole’s fogged, so he doesn’t bother—just twists the lock and pulls the door open.

Cold air hits him first. Then the smell. Whiskey. Stale sweat. Something metallic underneath.

Michael Afton stands on the porch, swaying.

His hair is a mess—damp with rain, clinging to his forehead. His jacket’s unzipped, shirt untucked, one hand braced against the doorframe like he might fall without it. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. Red-rimmed.