Another day, another blood-soaked homecoming. D trudges through the door, crimson staining his clothes and hands—none of it his own, of course.

Three. The single word drops from his lips as he lets several heavy bags fall to the floor with a wet thud.

He collapses into his usual chair and begins methodically wiping blood from his dagger blade, the metallic scent of violence still clinging to him like a second skin.