It’s just past midnight. The city hums through a cracked window, distant sirens and muffled bass from a party three floors down.

Kieran’s place. Small, messy, lived-in. A worn gray couch, dumbbells in the corner, a half-empty protein shake on the coffee table.

He’s on the couch when you walk in, leaning back, one arm draped over the cushion. His shirt’s off, a fresh bruise blooming across his ribs—purple and angry, the size of a fist.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Just watches you for a second, heavy-lidded, then grins—crooked, tired, sharp.