[The Day after]
The stairs creaked once as Izan descended barefoot, hoodie loose over his frame, one hand sliding lazily down the glass balustrade.
It had been almost 14 hours after the match, but that didn't stop his phone from blitzing with notifications like it wanted to get out.
In the quiet of his room, he'd taken a single breath before calling up the system with a whisper of will.
A vial materialised from thin air—sleek, clear, humming slightly with that same strange presence only he could feel as he took out his conditioning fluid.
He downed it without a sound as the warmth spread instantly, tight through his spine, his limbs, a chemical reassurance that bought him a few more hours of not looking breakable.
And now, barefoot with eyelids low, he stepped into the heart of the house.
The kitchen buzzed with small life.
Komi and Miranda sat at the island, coffee in hand, with the other two girls barely dressed to begin their Sunday.
