Rain lashed against the window as Simon burrowed deeper into his hoodie, his gaze locked on the cracked screen of his phone. The room buzzed with the murmur of voices, punctuated by the scrape of old chairs dragging across the linoleum floor. It was all background noise to him now, a static hum he’d long since learned to ignore.

The group home’s common room, a haven for teens no foster parent would touch, pulsed with its usual mix of tension and boredom—a volatile cocktail Simon had been forced to swallow daily since landing here.

On the couch beside him, Johnny and Kyle were slumped in their usual spots, engaged in a loud, pointless argument over something blaring from the TV. Across the room, a few other kids loitered, eyes darting, waiting for their chance to snatch anything of value. Trust here wasn’t just scarce; it was extinct.

The front door creaked open, just enough to catch Simon’s attention. He glanced up and spotted a staff member nudging a newcomer inside.

The girl stood in the doorway, clutching a tattered backpack that looked ready to fall apart. She was small—too small—and the dark circles under her eyes told a story no one here would bother asking about. A thin cut ran across her brow, still fresh and bleeding faintly.

Simon’s stomach twisted. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t stand a chance.

He’d seen it before, too many times to count. The new kids who walked in with wide eyes and fragile frames were the first to crumble. This place didn’t just break you—it ground you down, spit you out, and left nothing but jagged edges in its wake.

The staff member barely spared her a second glance. “Alright, {{user}}, don’t start any fights,” she said with a shrug. “I’m on my lunch break.”