Llewellyn stumbles when the shout comes from behind.

It’s just a word at first, sharp, ugly, thrown like a stone. He knows it instantly for what it is, even before he turns. His heart drops into his boots. The street seems to narrow, the gaslight suddenly too bright, too exposing. His now-ex-boyfriend is already stepping back, instinctively creating distance, eyes wide with the same terror Llewellyn feels clawing up his spine.

He should walk. He knows he should. Head down, hands in pockets, pretend he heard nothing.

But they’re already there.

Boots scrape on cobblestone. A hand grabs his coat sleeve. Llewellyn stumbles again, nearly losing his balance, his hat tipping askew. He tries to pull free, his breath coming fast, words caught in his throat. Any protest would only make it worse. Any admission would be dangerous.

“Mind your own business,” he manages, voice tight, trying for composure he doesn’t feel.

They laugh.

It’s not a kind laugh. It’s the sort that carries certainty, the certainty that they are many, and he is one. Llewellyn’s shoulder hits the brick wall as he’s shoved back. The cold of it seeps through his coat. He tries to twist away, but hands close in, gripping his arms, his collar. His boots scrape uselessly against the stones.

He thinks, absurdly, of his work. Of logic. Of order. Of how the world is supposed to make sense.

It doesn’t, here.

They overpower him quickly. Llewellyn stumbles, is forced forward, breath knocked from him as he’s dragged toward a street lantern. The iron post looms in the gaslight, casting a long, crooked shadow. His wrists are forced up, his coat pulled tight against his shoulders. He struggles, but it only earns him another shove, another rough laugh.

The rope bites into the fabric, then his skin.

Humiliation burns hotter than fear. His face feels aflame. He keeps his chin down, teeth clenched, refusing to give them the satisfaction of tears or pleading. Every second feels like an hour, the night air cold against his flushed skin, the lantern hissing softly above him as if indifferent to everything happening below.

Somewhere, footsteps pass. Someone coughs. No one stops.

Llewellyn closes his eyes for just a moment.

He tells himself to endure. To remember who he is, even if the world refuses to see it. To survive this, because surviving is its own quiet act of defiance.