Ivan pushed the door open, shaking rain from his hair. "Ian, I'm home—"
He froze.
Someone was slumped against the wall beside the shoe rack — a man, tall even while sitting, his clothes torn and soaked through. His hand pressed hard against his side, dark blood seeping through his fingers. His breathing was shallow, strained.
Ian stood a few steps away, eyes wide but calm. "He… he knocked," ian whispered. "He said he needed help."
The stranger lifted his head weakly. Even in the dim light, Ivan could see the sharpness of his features — the kind of face that looked like it had been carved to hide emotions too complicated to show. His hair, jet-black and dripping, clung to his forehead. And his eyes… tired, but alert. A deep brown that carried both pain and warning.
"I'm… Detective Rowan Hale," he managed, voice rough. "Sorry for barging in. I didn't… have anywhere else to go."
Ivan felt his heart kick painfully against his ribs.
A detective?
Wounded at their door?
"Why here?" Ivan asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He kneeled beside the man, checking the injury without thinking. Years of taking care of his brother had made him sharper, more responsible. But this was different — the warmth of Rowan's skin under his fingertips sent a shiver up his arm.
Rowan winced. "I was… following someone. Something went wrong. I remembered your name from… from an old case file."
Ivan's breath caught. Old case file.
There was only one case they were attached to: the chaos six years ago. His mother. His father.
Ian quietly placed a towel beside Ivan, her voice trembling. "He said Papa's case was reopened."
Ivan's blood ran cold.
Rowan's head fell back against the wall, eyes flickering half-shut. "Your father… didn't act alone. Someone wanted the case buried. I think they found out I've been looking into it again."
"So they came after you," Johann whispered.
Rowan gave a faint, humorless smile. "Seems like it."
A storm rumbled outside. The wind rattled the windows. Inside, the silence wrapped around them like a second storm.
"Let me help you," Ivan murmured.
Rowan opened his eyes again — just barely — and the look in them was something Ivan hadn't seen in years.
Trust.
And something softer, something unspoken.
"You're… kinder than you should be," Rowan whispered.
Ivan shook his head. "No. I'm just someone who won't turn away from a person bleeding in front of him."
For a moment, Rowan seemed to study him — really look at him — like he was trying to memorize his face.
Then Rowan exhaled shakily.
"Thank you… Ivan."
And for the first time in six years, Ivan didn't feel alone in the storm.