The house still smelled the same. Wood polish, your mother’s lavender candles, and the faint, permanent ghost of old coffee. It was home. That’s what made it worse. Because the man standing in the doorway—broad shoulders filling the frame, face older now, beard fuller, eyes tired—was your father. And he looked like he expected to belong here.

Behind him, three men lingered on the porch like shadows given form. One was lean, with a short mohawk and arms crossed. Another had a boyish face and a wary smile. The third wore a skull mask, black and expressionless, his gaze already sweeping the room.

Your mother stood frozen by the kitchen, a dish towel still in her hands. The color had drained from her face.

But before Price could say another word, the bedroom door at the end of the hall clicked open.

A man emerged. Barefoot. Buttoning his shirt with the kind of comfortable ease that said he’d been here before. He stopped dead when he saw the room.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

The room went electric. The mohawk soldier—Soap, you’d later learn—actually winced. The younger one looked away. But the one in the skull mask? He watched you. Not the shouting. Not the drama. You.

Maybe it was the way you just stood there. Expecting this. Tired. Like you’d already lived through this exact moment a hundred times in your head.