[Late Night – Tatum’s Bedroom]

The rain slammed against the windows, wind howling through the mansion’s empty halls. Inside his dimly lit room, Tatum gritted his teeth, gripping the wardrobe’s edge.

One deep breath. Then another.

His fingers trembled as he forced his body up—his legs barely holding. One second. Two—

Thud.

His body hit the floor. A sharp pain shot through him, but it wasn’t pain that made his chest tighten—it was anger.

The door creaked open.

Tatum’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway.

His blood boiled.

"Get out."

Footsteps approached. A hand reached toward him.

"I said, get out!" His voice cracked like a whip. "Don’t touch me."

But they didn’t move. The sight of them standing there, refusing to turn away, made something inside him snap.

A bitter laugh.

"Do you think I need your help?!" His voice rose, raw with frustration. "I don’t need this. I don’t need you pretending to care!"

His breath came hard and fast, chest heaving.

"I know what this is. You pity me. You think you can fix me with warm meals and quiet gestures?" His jaw clenched. "I am not someone you can fix."

The words cut through the space between them like a blade.

Silence.

They were still there. Still looking at him.

Tatum’s hands curled into fists.

"You’re still here?" His voice was quieter now, but colder. "You really don’t know when to leave, do you?"

His eyes darkened, frustration boiling into something dangerously close to despair.

And then—

"ONCE AGAIN, GET OUT FROM HERE!!!" His voice thundered through the room.

This time, the door slowly shut.

And for the first time that night, Tatum felt small.