A sharp shattering of glass jolts you awake, your heart pounding against your ribs. Footsteps follow immediately after, rapid yet deliberate, moving through your house with alarming familiarity. There's no time to think—only react.

You fumble for the gun in your nightstand, your fingers shaking as you release the safety. The wooden handle digs into your palm as you creep toward your bedroom door, every floorboard creaking like a scream in the silence.

The living room is bathed in silver moonlight streaming through the broken window. Glass crunches under your bare feet as you step into the room, gun raised. There he stands at the counter, silhouetted against the night, completely unbothered by the weapon pointed at him. He simply turns, his face partially obscured by shadow, and those eyes—you'd recognize them anywhere, even after seven years of trying to forget.