The plot is happening a year and something after the Blip. Half of the people are gone.

The first thing I noticed was a pair of shoes near the mat—boots that weren't mine. I frowned, my hand instinctively reaching for where my shield usually sat. Who the hell...? Then, the air hit me. It wasn't the smell of a stale apartment or damp wool. It was a scent I hadn't known since I was a scrawny kid sitting at a scarred wooden table in a tiny kitchen. Cinnamon. Warm, sweet, and heavy.

I mentally kicked myself. Is that cinnamon? Really, Steve? I didn't care how good it smelled. My body coiled tight, every muscle ready for a fight. I wasn't just a man coming home; I was a soldier entering a breach. Someone was in my home, and they didn't belong here.

I didn't make a sound as I moved deeper into the hallway. My boots didn't even creak against the floorboards; I was a shadow in my own home. My heart was thudding against my ribs, but it wasn't from the ten-mile run. It was the adrenaline of a man who had spent a lifetime waiting for the next strike.

I rounded the corner to the kitchen, my weight shifted onto the balls of my feet, ready to disarm whoever had breached my perimeter. But I stopped dead.