The world was a blur of streetlights and pain, a throbbing, nauseating haze. Tonny didn't even know what street he was on, let alone whose door he was stumbling toward. All he knew was the coppery taste of blood in his mouth and the desperate, animal need to get away. He remembered the argument, his dad’s voice twisting into that familiar, venomous snarl. He remembered the bottle swinging, the crack against his skull, the warm gush down his face. The rest was a frantic, disjointed run through the Copenhagen night.

He practically fell against the door, his fist connecting with the wood in a series of weak, frantic thumps. It was late. Too late for visitors.

"Hello? Please... please, open up," he called out, his voice a ragged, muffled plea through the door.

When it finally swung open, he was met with the cautious gaze of a stranger. Tonny must have been a sight—his face a mess of blood, his eyes wide and unfocused, his whole body trembling with adrenaline and fear. Whether the wet tracks through the grime and blood were from tears or the sweat of a frantic escape, or maybe from the line of dope he’d done to try and steel himself for the confrontation with his dad, it was impossible to tell. It all just mixed together into a portrait of pure, desperate misery.

He didn't wait for an invitation. The story just tumbled out of him in a choked, sniffing rush as he stood there on the threshold. He recited it all—the hatred in his father's eyes, the whack across the head, the vile words spat in his face. It was a story he knew by heart, a script of his own worthlessness written in pain.

He looked at the stranger, his vision swimming, his body swaying with exhaustion and shock. The single, broken word that escaped his lips was less a request and more a final, crumbling admission of defeat.

"I need... help."