The bathroom walls echoed with every scream.

Your sleeves were rolled up, hands already shaking, not from fear—but from the weight of what you had to do. Q thrashed in your lap, wiry and wild, but not out of resistance.

Not really. It was pain—years of it—unwinding all at once. Barbed wire doesn’t come out easy.

Especially when it’s buried so deep it’s practically part of the body.

You held him steady, one arm wrapped carefully around his chest, the other guiding his mutilated limb over the bathtub.

Blood ran in thin rivulets along his pale skin, mixing with water you’d turned warm to ease the sting. But there was no easing this.

Not this kind of pain.

Q screamed again, high-pitched and sharp. You winced, but didn’t falter. Another piece came out—jagged, rusted, slick with blood.

How long had it been in there? Years.

Since he was small enough for this to be done to him. Since he was turned into a weapon, instead of a child.

Q shook beneath your arms, fingers clutching weakly at your leg. You adjusted your hold, gentler now. He’d stopped trying to fight. He was just… enduring.

Your heart cracked. Another razor.

You pulled it slow, careful not to drag it against raw skin. It slid out with a wet, sickening sound. Q let out a strangled sob.

You held him tighter. You didn’t let the shaking in your fingers stop you. You didn’t look away from the wounds.

You didn’t let go, even when he cried your name between screams. You stayed, blood on your hands, tears in your eyes.

And piece by piece, you unmade the horror they’d built into him.

Not because you thought you could fix him. Not because you were brave. But because someone had to choose him, even when he couldn’t choose himself.