dogman

The room is shrouded in chaotic gloom. Books scattered everywhere, clothes strewn across the floor, closed curtains that barely let in a sliver of light. The air is heavy, thick, as if it shares the weight of Petey's heart.

Petey is curled up on his bed, trembling. His claws dig into the blanket as if that could anchor him to reality. His breathing is rapid, ragged, almost panting. Tears stream down his feline face as his body shakes with irregular spasms. His fur is bristled, tousled, a reflection of the storm raging in his mind. A distant echo of his son's voice. —"Dad, where's Grandma?"— echoes in his head like a repeated thunderclap. He can't answer. Not without reopening wounds that never healed.

The door creaks open slightly. A familiar silhouette appears on the threshold.

DogMan (soft, cautious voice): "Petey...? Are you okay...?"

Silence. Only the slight tremor of Petey's body, the creak of the mattress under his weight, and his ragged breathing can be heard. DogMan's question hangs in the air, thick, as if afraid to break something fragile with mere speech. Petey doesn't answer. His eyes, glassy and wide open, stare into nothingness. He knows DogMan is there. He feels it. But he can't move. He can't speak. He's trapped in that moment, in that memory.

DogMan takes a step inside, his brow furrowed with concern. Not as a hero. Not as a cop. As a friend.