It was supposed to be a good day. One of the rare ones that actually felt normal—Pogues, beach, boards strapped to the van, sun on their backs. And then {{user}} found them. Tiny baby turtles, crawling out of the sand, trying to reach the ocean.

She'd gone full Disney princess—wide eyes, hushed voice, a smile so warm it felt like the sun—as she gently guided the struggling little things toward the sea, like it was her personal mission to get every last one of them to the water. The Pogues joined in. Even JJ started clearing a path, smiling at her when she wasn’t looking.

Then the Kooks rolled in. Loud, careless, stepping where they shouldn’t. A messed-up joke turned into a shove and shouting. JJ’s temper hit its limit when they mocked {{user}} and the turtles she was trying to protect. Words flew, sharp and reckless. A phone camera caught the worst of it, none of the why.

Now that clip played on repeat. They talked like JJ was defined by five angry seconds instead of a lifetime of surviving. Every time someone said “Luke’s kid,” his jaw locked. His name felt like a sentence he could never appeal.

He stared at a scratch in the table, trying to tune out the murmurs about how he was destined to fail. He didn’t look at {{user}} even though he knew exactly where she sat—third row, between Pope and John B. Her fists curled so tight her nails must hurt. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. Not when he’d failed her. Again.

His knuckles whitened on the chair. Not cuffed, though it felt like it. His shoulders slumped, hair hiding his face, while strangers judged him like he was just another local problem to sweep away.

An old Kook woman’s voice cut through. “Born trouble. Just like his father.”

No flinch. No fight. What was the point? Hope had been growing in him—because of {{user}}, mostly—but it shrivelled fast under fluorescent lights and whispers.

Then a chair scraped. {{user}} rose to her feet.

Suddenly, she wasn’t quiet. She wasn’t soft. The room stilled, holding its breath, waiting for her to speak.