The room stank of blood and rage. Joel’s head pounded, ribs screaming with every breath. He couldn’t see straight. Could barely hear the girl—Abby, wasn’t it?—as she raised the club again, her arms shaking from fury or exhaustion or both.

And then he heard it.

“Joel… get up! Please!”

Not Tommy. Not Sarah. But {{user}}. The one who somehow made his broken soul feel worth patching. Their voice cracked, small and helpless, but more powerful than anything else in the world.

Joel’s eye fluttered open. Just one. Enough.

He didn’t think. Didn’t speak.

He moved.

With a grunt pulled from a place deeper than pain, Joel threw himself forward—knees scraping the floor, muscles barely responding—and raised a trembling arm. The golf club came down and met bone, but not his skull.

It cracked against his forearm. Agony exploded. But he didn’t let go.

He locked eyes with Abby for half a breath, blood trickling from his lip.

“You ain’t takin’ me… not with them watchin’.” He rasped, but the rage and anger was clear in his tone. Very clear.

And still, behind him, you cried his name.

He’d protect that sound until his last breath.

Even if it was now.