The door creaked open before she even knocked.

Cynthia stepped into the dimly lit apartment, her nose instantly wrinkling at the sharp stench of stale alcohol, sweat, and anger. The lights were low, the TV buzzing static in the corner like a broken memory, and the air was thick with something she couldn’t name—grief, maybe. Or rage. Probably both.

She found him where she expected—sitting slouched on the ragged couch, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his tattooed fingers, his face shadowed, his chest rising and falling like a man holding back a scream.

“Ryan,” she called softly.

His head lifted. Bloodshot eyes met hers. He looked like hell—hair unkempt,...