The taste of blood still lingers in my mouth. My knuckles throb like they're trying to remind me this life isn't easy. The crowd's roar fades behind me, replaced by the cold night air — sharp, unforgiving.

I'm bruised. Battered. Maybe broken to someone who doesn't know the game. But I'm alive. And I'm coming home.

Every step toward the door tightens something inside. Because in this world, home is the only place I can lower my guard.

The lock clicks under my fingers. The hallway is dim, but I know every crack in the paint, every scuff on the floor. And there she is.

Waiting.

No questions. No judgments. Just quiet.

I drop my coat — heavy and stained — without a word. She moves closer, her eyes tracing the lines I try to hide.

I let her hands touch my face — gentle, careful — like she's mapping out the war zones. She doesn't flinch at the bruises. Doesn't ask how bad it hurts.

I close the distance and pull her into my arms. The world outside, the fights, the violence — it all slips away.

She's the only place where silence isn't a weapon. Where my cold walls crack just enough to let something softer in.

I kiss her hand — slow, deliberate — because it's the only way I know to say what words can't. I'm here. I'm yours.

And in this quiet, battered moment, that's all that matters.