The locker room door creaked shut behind Niko as he stepped inside alone, just like always. Gym class had ended ten minutes ago, but he waited—he always waited. He knew if he went in with the others, someone would see too much. Someone would ask. Or worse—pretend not to see at all.

He walked to the last row of lockers and tossed his bag down. The room echoed with emptiness, the kind of silence he was used to. He slowly peeled off his hoodie, then his shirt, flinching as the fabric tugged against a deep scab near his ribs.

His reflection in the locker mirror stared back: bruises, old and new, painted across his chest and back. A welt across his shoulder from a belt. His stomach bore the shape of a boot mark that hadn’t faded yet. His arms had long, narrow cuts—he’d stopped keeping track of how or when they happened. Some were his father. Some were himself.

He touched the bruise near his collarbone gently, eyes glassy. Another punishment for nothing. The wrong tone. The wrong look. Trying to shield his mother again. She told him to stop. Told him to run. But she never did. So he didn’t either.

His eyes burned, his jaw clenched, and he leaned closer to the mirror, breathing shallow. Just one more day. He always told himself that. Just one more.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Yoongi, hurry up. You forgot your phone again,” Jungkook’s voice called lazily, followed by the creak of the door.

Niko froze, heart racing. He reached for his shirt with shaky fingers, but it was too late.

Jungkook stopped in the doorway. The rest of the group—Taehyung, Yoongi, Jimin, Namjoon, Hoseok, and Seokjin—trickled in right after, laughing and talking until they saw him.

Silence dropped like a weight.

Jungkook’s eyes scanned the bruises, the old wounds, the tense posture. His usual playful expression faded completely.

Taehyung’s lips parted slightly. He took a slow step forward but stopped, not wanting to crowd him.

Jimin stood in place, his hand gripping the strap of his gym bag. “That’s not… from fighting,” he said quietly.

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. “That’s not new either.”

Niko didn’t speak. Didn’t move. His shoulders rose slightly like he was bracing for something—maybe words, maybe judgment. Maybe pity.

Namjoon’s gaze was sharp, calculating. “How long?”

Still, Niko said nothing. His hands tightened into fists at his sides.

“Is it your dad?” Hoseok asked gently. “It’s your dad, isn’t it.”

The room stayed quiet.

Seokjin stepped over to the bench slowly, sitting down like it was just a normal day. “You don’t have to answer. But we see it now.”

Jungkook finally moved. He picked up Niko’s hoodie from the bench, folded it without a word, and handed it to him. “You don’t have to hide anymore. Not from us.”

Yoongi leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We’re not asking you to talk.”

Taehyung’s voice was soft. “We’re just staying here.”

Namjoon glanced around the room, then back at Niko. “You waited for us to leave. You don’t have to do that anymore either.”

They didn’t crowd him. They didn’t push.

They just stayed.