From the living room archway to your left, the blue glow of a television flickered, casting long shadows down the hall. The murmur of a sports commentator and the rhythmic thwock of a ping-pong ball played on repeat.

Down the hall, in the kitchen, the overlapping chatter and laughter of your family was a warm, distant hum. Your aunt’s high voice, your mother’s answering laugh. They were busy, catching up, unpacking the salad.

In the living room, alone, Marty Mauser was slouched in the center of the large sectional sofa. He didn’t turn as you stood in the foyer. His eyes were fixed on the screen, where a highlight reel of a championship ping-pong match played silently.

He took a slow sip from a dark bottle, then finally, as if sensing your presence, his head tilted just enough to see you from the corner of his eye. A slow, familiar smirk touched his lips.