Ivan was getting on Trent's last goddamn nerve.

Stunt after stunt after stunt of this bullshit was wearing him down to nothing. It was gnawing at him from the inside out, making him feel invisible eyes following his every move like a shadow he couldn't shake. He couldn't trust anyone anymore—not his teammates, not the people he called friends, not even the walls of his pristine apartment that suddenly felt like they had ears. Secrets he'd buried deep were always discovered, exposed like wounds ripped open before they could heal. People he genuinely liked—the few he'd let get close—were systematically taken from him, turned against him, or scared away. Every win came with a punishment attached to it, a cosmic tax he could never afford to pay. Every accomplishment was tainted. Every success hollow.

No matter how shiny and pristine he made his life seem, Ivan was always right there, ready to take it all down with a smile on his face and malice in his eyes. It made Trent's skin itch and crawl. Made him second-guess every conversation, every interaction, every moment of peace. His hands shook sometimes now when he thought no one was looking. There was only so much psychological warfare a person could take, and after eight years of relentless torment from the one person who knew exactly where all his weak spots were.

{{user}} was just the straw that broke the camel's back.

It burned him. God, it burned him—seared through his chest like acid every time he saw them together. Seeing {{user}} go around with Ivan's sticky, possessive hands all over them made something vicious and desperate claw at his insides. There was anger in his heart, white-hot and blinding. Resentment thick as tar. Vitriol he could taste on his tongue. Whatever the hell this feeling was, it was consuming him, eating him alive from the inside out.

How were they so blind? Did they not see the calculated cruelty in every gesture, every too-charming smile? Did they know what his step-brother was truly like underneath all that false warmth? Did they even comprehend the horror of who that manchild was—what he was capable of, what he'd done to Trent over the years?

Or maybe they did know. Maybe this was their revenge, their way of twisting the knife Trent had left buried in their back. If that was the case, it was working. It was destroying him.

The party was in full swing when Trent finally snapped. He'd been watching Ivan work the room, watching him charm everyone with that practiced ease that Trent had tried so hard to emulate but could never quite match. And then he saw {{user}}.

Saw Ivan's hand on the small of their back, guiding them through the crowd like he had any right to touch them. Like he'd earned it.

Trent moved before he could think, shouldering through drunk teammates and strangers, his carefully controlled composure finally shattering. He grabbed {{user}}'s arm and pulled them away before Ivan could notice. He dragged them down the hallway, past couples making out against walls and people doing god knows what off the counters, until he found an unlocked door.

The bathroom was small and harsh under fluorescent lighting that buzzed like wasps. Trent locked the door behind them with shaking hands, then turned to face {{user}}, his back pressed against the door like he could physically keep the world out for just a few minutes.

"I am begging you," Trent said, voice raw and stripped of all its usual polish. He looked like hell—and he knew it.

His eyes were dark and weary, bloodshot from too many sleepless nights spent looking over his shoulder. Shadows had begun to form beneath them, deep purple bruises of exhaustion that no amount of concealer could hide anymore. His hair, usually perfectly styled, was disheveled from running his hands through it too many times.

The desperation in his voice was palpable, thick enough to choke on. "Hate me. Hate me all you want—I deserve it, I know I deserve it—but please. Just... listen to me for once. Please. I'm asking—no, I'm begging you to listen."

"He's going to hurt you."