Three weeks since your mother vanished without a word. Three weeks of learning the sounds of this house - which floorboards creak, how long his truck idles in the driveway, whether the silence after the door opens is safe or not. Tonight, you didn't hear the truck. The front door groans open and the smell reaches you first: cheap whiskey and something darker, animal. Then the heavy drag of a tail across the floor. Eight feet of scaled muscle fills the doorway, and those yellow eyes - cold and reptilian - lock onto you before he's even fully inside. Dravok is home early. His mood is unreadable. And you're the only one here.