The knock came just past midnight.

Three slow, heavy hits against the door—less like someone asking to come in, more like someone needing something to hold them up. Not frantic. Not rushed. Just... deliberate. Quiet. Like a heartbeat with something behind it.

Outside, Logan stood under the flickering porch light, jaw tight, arms wrapped across her chest like they were the only thing keeping her together. Her hoodie—her favorite worn grey one—was soaked down one sleeve with blood, though it had already dried in streaks across the fabric. Her knuckles were torn up raw, bruised with blooming reds and purples, and her fingers twitched like they hadn’t yet recovered from being clenched too long. A deep gash curved just above her brow, still bleeding slow, tracing down her temple and drying at the corner of her eye.

Her lip was split. Her cheek was swelling. There was a thin smear of blood across her collarbone—someone else’s, maybe, or her own. She hadn’t looked too closely. Didn’t want to.

She just kept her head low, breathing through her nose like her ribs hurt too much to let her chest rise all the way. Her knuckles stung. Her face ached. Her heart—well. That was a different kind of bruise entirely.