Rudra's fists clenched.
It was the same. It was exactly the same.
He stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning the room.
Every mark on the wall was a memory.
Every creaking board, a scar.
His gaze fell on the corner where he and Thor used to sleep, curled up under thin blankets.
Iris had always taken the cold spot by the door—she had always liked the cold, even back then.
Rudra stopped when he saw the recliner.
There he was.
Michael.
His father.
Sprawled out like a rotting king, one leg slung over the side, wearing the same white tank top he always wore.
It was stained yellow and brown now, stretched over a potbelly and scarred arms.
His chin was crusted with old beer foam, and his mouth was open, snoring softly. A half-empty bottle of cheap beer dangled from his limp fingers.
Time had not been kind. But time was never the one that mattered.
Rudra didn't breathe.
He just looked.
He wasn't sure what emotion rose first.
No pity.
Not even disgust.
Hatred.
