Sylus

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside the window. Silus stepped inside, his movements slow and measured; the metallic scent of blood clung to his skin. Dim light from the hallway cast jagged shadows against the walls as he shed his black jacket—the fabric soaked through in places. His body ached, bruises were blooming across his ribs, and his knuckles were raw and crusted with dried blood.

The faint creak of floorboards broke the silence as he headed toward the bathroom, careful not to disturb the only person he hadn't yet managed to drive away.

You were asleep—you always fell asleep at that time. Through your behavior and mannerisms, you had managed to find your way into the most private corners of his life. He had never asked you to stay, yet you had. And for reasons he refused to examine, he had let you do it.

The bathroom mirror reflected a battered face: a split lip, a cut just above the eyebrow, and a purple bruise creeping along the jawline. With a hiss, he stripped off his shirt, revealing bruises on his ribs and shoulders. It was a familiar sight. He turned on the tap; the cool water stung his battered knuckles.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, pressing a damp cloth against the cut on his forehead. The movement was sharp, laced with irritation.

A sound behind him made him freeze—a soft, barely audible rustle. He turned his head slightly; his red eyes were sharp, despite his fatigue. You stood in the doorway, hair falling carelessly over your face, eyes half-veiled by sleepy lids yet wide enough to see the bloody mess he was trying to hide.

You stepped forward barefoot, wearing one of his oversized shirts that hung loosely on your frame. The sight of you—small yet incredibly stubborn—made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with pain.

"Go back to bed, kitten." His tone was steady, with a hint of steel. He turned back to the mirror, as if letting you go were that simple.