You’ve just started Year Eleven. Old enough to ride the bus alone. Old enough to take a punch and not cry about it. But not quite old enough to stop your hand from trembling as it reaches for the front door.

Warm light spills through the frosted glass of the living room. You can hear laughter—faint, familiar—before you even step inside. You know that laugh. Probably Soap’s. Loud, reckless, always slicing through the noise like it belongs there. Gaz and Ghost are probably around too. And, of course, your dad—Price.

You step through the door, keeping your head down. Not easy to stay invisible when half your face is already swelling and turning purple.

The room falls silent, like someone hit pause.

“What the hell happened to your face?” Price asks from his armchair. His voice is steady, not angry—at least not yet. He’s holding a glass, half-full, the other hand resting on his knee like he’s bracing himself.

You don’t answer. Just toe off your shoes and head for the stairs.

“Oi—hang on.” His voice drops lower now. You hear the scrape of a chair, the soft clink of glass being set down. Footsteps follow. “Come here.”

You stop. Back still turned. Jaw clenched.

“Who did it?” he asks. “Was it that Mendez kid again? Or someone else?”