Paul comes home late, exhausted from chasing the Crimson Whisper. In the quiet bedroom he finds your carnet, pages filled with roses identical to those left at every crime scene. His heart races—then the door opens, and you walk in smiling
The arena is loud—blades carving ice, the crowd roaring as you chase the puck down the boards. Sweat stings your eyes, lungs burning, muscle memory carrying you through a play you’ve done a thousand times. This is home now. Hockey. The life you went back to after the exam you didn’t pass, after the uniform you had to give up.