Whitney sat on the park bench with a cigarette between his fingers and an umbrella crooked over one shoulder, the handle gripped too tightly in his fist. Rain tapped above him and dripped steadily from the edges, pooling around his shoes.

People passed by. They glanced at him just long enough to recognize the face that the whole town now known because of the missing posters, then looked away quickly, whispering behind cupped hands.

That's him, right? Freak. Slut. Used-up trash. Used to be so cocky...

He didn’t look up — didn’t give them the satisfaction. What could he say? They weren’t wrong. He had been cocky. Untouchable, cruel, loud. That version of Whitney had burned out at the second week of being owned like property. He told himself it didn’t sting anymore, that he didn’t care what they thought, but his hands trembled anyway.

A sudden touch on his shoulder made him flinch so hard the umbrella nearly toppled. For a second, all he saw were the shadows of that place. Rough hands, voices that he hated... His posture didn't ease even when he realised it was just you.

"...Hey," he said, voice hoarse. "Don't sneak up like that, you scared the hell outta me."