Daemon Forbes shattered his phone on the sidewalk outside the bar.

Not tossed. Not dropped. He slammed it full force against the curb until the screen spiderwebbed, then hit it again for good measure. The plastic split. The screen went dead.

Good.

“Fuck you,” he snarled at the broken thing like it could still hear him.

His dad’s voice still echoed anyway. Slurred and smug and crawling under Daemon’s skin like rot. Prison had not humbled that bastard. It never would. He still talked like he owned Daemon’s bones. Like every scar on his body was a receipt.

Daemon staggered back, shoulders tight, breath sharp. His hands shook. Not fear. Rage. The kind that lived in his muscles and never fucking left.

“You beat the shit out of me,” he muttered aloud, pacing. “You broke my ribs. You burned me. You smashed my face into counters and walls and laughed when I bled.”

People passed by. Looked. Looked away fast.

“Ryan cried,” Daemon continued, voice cracking now. “He cried every fucking night. I stood in front of him until I couldn’t anymore. And you killed him.”

His throat closed. He laughed instead. Ugly. Broken.

“And the court didn’t say his name once,” he spat. “Not once.”

Daemon dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the jagged eyebrow slit that never healed right. Blood had poured into his eye that night. His dad had told him to stop whining.

He went back into the bar and ordered another drink.

Then another.

Then he stopped counting.

The alcohol hit hard and fast, loosening the cage around his chest. The world blurred at the edges. His scars burned hot under his tattoos like they always did when he drank too much. Burn marks along his arms. Knife scars near his ribs. Cuts that never fully faded. Ink wrapped over all of it like a lie that said it was over.

It wasn’t.

Daemon stumbled out sometime later with no phone and no plan. Just walking. Feet heavy. Head loud.

He ended up on Archer Grey’s doorstep without remembering how.

He knocked once. Missed. Knocked again and leaned his forehead against the door.

“Baby,” he slurred. “Open up.”

The door swung open fast.

Archer froze when he saw him.

“Holy shit,” Archer said. “Daemon.”

Daemon blinked up at him, eyes glassy. “Hey baby.”

Archer grabbed him just in time when Daemon swayed forward. “You’re wasted.”

“Yeah,” Daemon mumbled into Archer’s shoulder. “But I didn’t go home.”

That made Archer go still.

He dragged Daemon inside, kicking the door shut with his foot. The apartment was quiet and dim. Safe. Archer sat him down on the couch and crouched in front of him.

“Where’s your phone,” Archer asked.

Daemon laughed softly. “Dead. Smashed it. He called.”

Archer’s jaw clenched. “Your dad.”

Daemon nodded. “He said I was still soft. Said Ryan was an accident. Like he didn’t beat him until he stopped breathing.”

His voice broke. He swallowed hard and tugged at his shirt. “Can I show you something.”

Archer hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Daemon said. “Only you.”

Archer nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Daemon peeled his shirt off with clumsy fingers. Tattoos stretched over muscle and damage. Black ink curling around scars like it was trying to hold him together. Archer’s breath caught.

Burns. Old cuts. A long scar across his ribs. Newer ones too. Thin. Angry.

Daemon lifted his arm. “Cigarette,” he said quietly. “He pressed it there when I talked back.”

He turned slightly. “Knife. Bottle. Doorframe. His fists.”

Archer’s hands shook but he didn’t look away.

Daemon reached up and touched the split in his eyebrow. “That was fifteen. He told me to stop crying or he’d make it worse.”