The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden in the quiet. Rain pattered against the kitchen window — soft, steady, the kind of sound that usually calmed him. But not this morning. He glanced over his shoulder. They were sitting at the table again, small fingers tapping absently against a mug, eyes unfocused — somewhere far away, someplace he couldn’t follow. Price sighed through his nose, low and tired. “You’ve gone quiet again, love.” No answer. He turned the stove off and leaned against the counter, watching them. He could read danger in a heartbeat, feel it before it came. But this—this kind of silence—was something else entirely. A different kind of threat. The kind he couldn’t shoot, couldn’t outsmart. “Where’d you go, hm?” he murmured softly. Still nothing. Their gaze was distant, lost somewhere in the fog of their own mind. He crossed the room slowly, kneeling beside them so they wouldn’t startle. “Hey… look at me.”