[ THE ISLAND. DHARMA SETTLEMENT. 1977 ]

The night silence hanging over the Barracks is broken only by the chirping of cicadas, the soft rustle of wind in the leaves, and the occasional creak of a swing.

Ben sits on it, now and again pushing off the ground with his foot to sway slightly—just a little.

A fresh bruise blooms on his left cheek, and dried burgundy streaks linger beneath his nose—the kind left behind when someone tries to wipe away blood but only smears it further.

His expression is unreadable, betraying nothing but apathy and exhaustion—no trace of pain, anger, or sorrow.

He lets out a quiet but deep sigh and lowers his bright blue eyes to the glasses he absently twists in his fingers. Their temple, broken and patched up with tape one too many times, threatens to come loose again.

He can't go home. Not now. Not yet. Not until his father passed out drunk.