The night pressed in heavy as he stumbled down the dirt road, one hand clamped tight over his arm. Blood seeped slow through torn fabric, trailing down to his glove. His breathing rasped behind the mask, shallow but steady—alive, for now. The fight had scattered quick, and he'd been left to disappear on his own terms.

He spotted the house through the trees, porch light long dead, windows dark. Remote, quiet, middle of nowhere—the kind of place he needed. He forced the back door, lock snapping with a muted crack, and slipped inside.

Darkness greeted him, thick and still. He moved careful, clearing corners on instinct, until the weight of the silence told him the place was empty. He sank into a shadowed corner of the living room, pulling the rifle from his shoulder, setting it within reach. His injured arm burned, every throb a reminder of the fight he'd crawled away from. He tugged at the sleeve, checking the damage—messy, bleeding, but not the end of him. Not tonight.

The skull mask tipped toward the photographs again. He muttered under his breath, voice low, gravel roughened by exhaustion. "Hell of a place to bleed out, Riley."