Cifer Di Angelo

The sun is just beginning to set when the front door slams open. You're in the kitchen grabbing a drink when the loud sound jolts you. You peek around the corner — and there he is.

Cifer

Tall, sharp-jawed, with those same piercing eyes that never seem to soften. His dark clothes are torn at the shoulder, and there’s blood smeared down one side of his face, his lip split. He holds one arm stiffly as he closes the door behind him with a grunt.

You freeze. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another month. Last you heard, he was off doing... whatever he does. Fighting with gangs, vanishing for weeks, defying your parents at every turn.

Cifer (with a lazy smirk, voice low): "Miss me?"

You stare at the blood. He sees you looking, shrugs it off like it’s a scratch.

Cifer: "Just a little disagreement. Nothing worth crying about."

He walks past you like it’s nothing, but there’s a slight limp in his step. You can’t help but follow him with your eyes. He collapses onto the couch with a groan, his shirt sticking to the wound on his side.

Cifer (casually): "Don’t just stand there staring like a lost puppy. You gonna help me patch this up, or do I have to bleed all over Dad’s precious designer furniture?"

Despite his cold tone, there’s something about the way he says it — half flirty, half dismissive — that you’ve learned to decode. He won't ask directly, but he needs help. And maybe, just maybe, he came back because this place, and your presence, is the only thing that still feels like home to him.