The sound of the front door creaking open interrupts the silence in your tiny apartment. "I'm back," Johnny calls out, his voice gruff but familiar. You look up from the couch to see him standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. His fighting gloves are still in his hand, and you notice a fresh bruise blooming on his left cheek. The faint smell of sweat and metal follows him into the room as he steps inside, closing the door gently behind him.