6PM. The sun was bleeding orange through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the living room. You were sprawled on the couch, half-watching some rerun you didn't care about.

Bill was upstairs, locked in his room, probably texting some girl or messing with his hair. Georg and Gustav were lost in their own world. It was a rare, peaceful evening.

Then the front door slammed.

Not a gentle click. A full, violent slam that rattled the frame.

You heard footsteps. Heavy. Unsteady. Stumbling over the entryway rug, then a low, pained hiss.

Tom Kaulitz appeared in the doorway of the living room.

His baggy white tee was torn at the collar, stained with something dark. His lip ring glinted under the light, but the lip around it was split and swollen. Blood trickled from a cut above his brow, smearing down his cheek. One of his dreads was loose, hanging over his face.

He froze when he saw you.

And then, without a word, he walked straight to you. His steps were uneven, one hand bracing against the back of the couch as he stopped right in front of you.

He looked down at you. His jaw was tight. His eyes were wet.