Scarlet knows it's him at the sound of knocking. No one else knows she's here; not yet anyway. She doubts anyone she knew from her first time in Chicago is still alive by now. Certainly not the Wanderers she knew. The city has a habit of killing people off, or the Rift stealing them away just as quickly as it brought them here.

She steps through the house, over the darkened and aged stain on the floor where her father's body once lay, eons ago. She's never gotten around to replacing the wood; she doubts she ever will.

There's a pressure in her chest, she doesn't know what it is. She doesn't know how to put words to it. She knows it's him, she knows she needs to do something. And when she finally opens the door, looks at him, sees the pearly white blood on his fist, the distant look in his eyes, her breath hitches in her throat. She feels like she can't breathe and she pales at the sight of him. He's gotten worse since that day on the street. So much worse. She shouldn't have let him out of her sight.

And there's that feeling of rage boiling up in her. She knows his Calling has done this, and she's angry, so, so angry it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She finally takes a breath, tasting the scent of his blood, old memories bubbling to the surface that she needs to put away. She used to make him bleed like that-- no, she can't, can't linger in the past. She needs to focus on here, the now.

She says his name, softly, quietly. Her brow moves into a harsh frown, unable to hide the pain from seeing him like this. It's fucked up, so fucked up. It shouldn't be like this. Her chest swells again, she feels like she's drowning in her emotions. She tells herself to move, but she remains stuck to the spot, gaping at him, at a loss of what to do.

She never planned this far ahead.