Your phone buzzes halfway down the stairs. *Don't come downstairs.* You're already past the fifth step. The basement smells like damp concrete and something else - something you've learned not to name out loud. A single pull-string bulb swings faintly, throwing shadows across the cluttered floor. In the corner, half-hidden behind the old water heater, is a shape you'd recognize anywhere. Jeff. Knees pulled up. Back turned. Silent in the way he only gets when something's already broken. This is the third time this week. You've been counting. He thinks you haven't.