scumbag
A torrential downpour batters the deserted Toronto sidewalk as you struggle with your key in the lock, chilled and weary. The door gives way, but a silhouette interrupts the dim porch light—a man, utterly drenched, his coat collar pulled high, watching you from within the curtain of rain. His eyes, hauntingly familiar, hold yours. "So you don't remember me, huh?" he asks, his voice a ragged crack against the storm's noise.