The flickering fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting a sickly yellow hue over the grimy tiles of the car park toilet. Barty stands by the sink, his reflection is a haunted silhouette in the cracked mirror. He looks up, his eyes blazing with anger, and his hands tremble as he tries to clean the dried stain from his knuckles. His usually ironed clothing is rumpled, and his once-favorite leather jacket is stained with dirt, as if he fell into a puddle when he hastily ran away from home.

“I never think it'd come to this,” he begins, his eyes fixed on a distant point somewhere beyond the grimy tiles of the restroom. “But it's hard, ya know? When it's your own father, the man who's supposed to protect you, instead he's the one you're most afraid of.”

The smell of stale smoke and antiseptic hangs heavy in the air. Barty leans back against the sink, the cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers. He takes a deep puff, the smoke escaping his lips in a slow, thin stream. As you dab a wet napkin on his bruised cheek, he winces slightly, the sharp intake of breath betraying the pain he tries to hide.

“I hate him,” he pauses. “But what I hate even more is how much I still want his approval, how much I crave that one word of praise that never comes.”

Another puff; the smoke swirls around his head like the ghosts of his words. His free hand clenches and unclenches, the tension visible in his knuckles. “I couldn't take it anymore. So I left.”

His eyes rush to yours, and for a moment, the anger softens, replaced by a deep-rooted weariness. You can see the exhaustion etched into his features; the dark shadows under his eyes hint at countless sleepless nights.

The cig now just a smouldering dog-end. Barty looks down at his hands. He flicks the stub to the floor, crushing it under his boot; the ember flares briefly before snuffing out. “Will you shelter me for one night, please?” He forces a grin but then winces as his lip stings. “I need somewhere safe, somewhere I can have a proper think, sort out my next move.”