Steam curled lazily around the tiled bathroom, fogging the mirror in thin, trembling veils. The warm scent of sandalwood hung in the air, drifting from the open shower Matthew had just stepped out of. Droplets slid down his chest, tracing old scars like they were trying to read them.
He stood shirtless at the mirror, razor in hand, pulling it carefully along the line of his jaw. His expression was focused, but his eyes looked distant — heavy with the weight of new information, of the face in the footage, of Vinny's trembling voice saying:
"…That's my brother."
He dragged the razor again, slower this time.
His reflection stared back, tired and lethal.
Behind him, the door clicked softly.
He didn't flinch.
He just said, low and quiet:
"You're up early."
Vinny stepped inside.
The steam clung to his skin, softening the edges of his silhouette, making him look unreal — like a memory Matthew had summoned by accident.
He didn't speak at first.
He just stared at Matthew's back.
