The walk home felt different this time.
Not longer.
Not shorter.
Just… heavier.
Like the air remembered.
And decided not to forget.
I kept my hands in my pockets.
Still.
Controlled.
But I could feel it.
The warmth that shouldn't have lingered.
The faint reminder of what had happened back there.
Not just the fight.
But the after.
The silence.
The watching.
The judgment.
Footsteps fell into place beside mine.
Familiar.
Unforced.
I didn't look.
Didn't need to.
"Hey," Adrian said.
Soft. Careful.
I nodded once.
That was enough.
We walked.
Side by side.
Not touching.
Never touching.
He didn't ask what happened.
Didn't mention the blood.
Didn't bring up Kellan.
But I felt it.
The way his attention drifted.
Not obvious.
Not direct.
Just enough to notice.
My hands.
My face.
Back again.
Like he was checking—and hoping he wouldn't find anything.
"You okay?"
Quieter this time.
Less casual.
"Yeah."
Too fast.
Too clean.
He didn't call it out.
Didn't push.
Never did.
We kept walking.
His steps matched mine without trying.
Same pace.
Same rhythm.
Like it had been practiced.
"You heading straight home?" he asked.
"Yeah."
A pause.
Small.
Almost nothing.
"I'll walk with you."
Not asking.
Not assuming.
Just… choosing.
I didn't answer.
He stayed anyway.
For a moment—
just a moment—
the weight felt… less.
Not gone.
Not lighter.
Just… shared.
The road narrowed as we turned onto my street.
Fewer houses.
Quieter.
Familiar in a way that didn't feel comforting anymore.
Adrian slowed slightly.
His eyes moved ahead.
To the house.
Then back to me.
"…You gonna be okay?"
Not here.
Not today.
At home.
I didn't answer immediately.
Because for a second—
I wasn't thinking about him anymore.
I was thinking about the door.
The hallway.
The way the air changed the moment I stepped inside.
The voice.
The footsteps.
The smell.
I swallowed once.
"Yeah."
Same answer.
Same lie.
Adrian didn't nod this time.
Didn't pretend.
"You don't have to—" he started.
Then stopped.
Shook his head slightly.
"Just… text me later, yeah?"
I nodded.
Once.
That was enough.
It always was.
"Alright."
He stepped back.
Didn't turn immediately.
Still watching.
Just for a second.
Then he left.
And just like that—
the space beside me was empty again.
The house stood ahead.
Waiting.
And the moment stretched—
thin.
Tight.
Because now I was thinking about it.
Really thinking about it.
About him.
The shouting.
The way everything bent around him.
The way the house never felt like mine when he was inside.
The way it never stopped.
A quiet thought surfaced.
Uninvited.
Familiar.
It would be easier if he just… wasn't there.
I stilled.
Just for a second.
And somewhere—
deep, quiet—
something listened.
The Devil spoke.
Not immediately.
It waited.
Until the thought settled.
Until the silence held.
"You handled that well."
Simple.
Measured.
I didn't answer.
A pause.
Then—
"Do you want me to handle him?"
My steps slowed.
Just slightly.
"What do you mean?"
A quiet breath.
Almost amused.
"I didn't say kill him."
Too casual.
Too controlled.
"Break a finger."
A pause.
"An arm."
Another pause.
"Enough to get him out of the equation."
Equation.
Like my life was something that could be adjusted.
"He's a terrible man," the voice continued.
Not angry.
Not emotional.
Just… certain.
"You've felt it."
I said nothing.
But I had.
"Do you want him gone from your way?"
The question pressed closer.
"I don't need you to handle anything."
Too controlled.
Too certain.
A pause.
Then—
"Is that so?"
And for a moment—
I felt it.
Not pressure.
Not force.
Just… attention.
Focused.
Sharp.
I stepped inside.
The door hadn't even fully closed—
when it started.
"Where the hell have you been?"
His voice cut through the house.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Waiting.
I didn't answer.
Heavy footsteps.
Fast.
Unsteady.
Then he was there.
Filling the hallway.
Eyes locked on me.
"You think you can just walk in whenever you want?"
The alcohol hit first.
Faint.
But there.
Always there.
"I asked you a question."
A step closer.
Too close.
Something tightened in me.
Not fear.
Just… pressure.
"I got called in today."
"School."
Another step.
"You want to explain that?"
I didn't answer.
It wouldn't matter.
Never did.
His hand twitched.
I saw it.
I always saw it.
"You think you're tough now?"
A bitter laugh.
"You don't even know what a real fight is."
Something shifted.
Quieter.
Colder.
I wanted it to stop.
Not just the shouting.
Not just this moment.
All of it.
The noise.
The tension.
The way everything bent around him.
Just—
stop.
The thought didn't feel loud.
Didn't feel like a decision.
It just… settled.
And for a second—
everything went still.
Not outside.
Inside.
"You're not going to answer me?"
He stepped forward.
Foot catching the edge of the rug.
This time—
it caught.
His balance shifted.
Wrong.
He stumbled toward the table.
Arm out.
Clawing.
The edge of the table—
missed.
His body twisted—
too far.
Too fast.
A crack.
Pain shot through him.
A scream ripped out.
He hit the floor hard.
Arm bent at an unnatural angle.
Air leaving him in a harsh, broken sound.
Silence followed.
I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Too clean.
Too immediate.
Too—
aligned.
His face twisted in pain.
Hand clutching his arm.
Wrong angle.
"You—" he choked.
"You piece of—"
Pain cut him off.
Harder this time.
And I just stood there.
Watching.
The thought came back.
Quiet.
Clear.
I wanted it to stop.
My fingers twitched.
And somewhere—
deep beneath the silence—
I felt it.
Not laughter.
Not approval.
Recognition.
Like something had just answered me.
And for the first time—
I couldn't tell if it had been an accident.
Or if something had listened.