Your dad had never been a kind man. Neglectful at best, cruel at worst. After your mother passed away from illness, it was just the two of you—if you could even call it that. He never acted like a father, and you learned quickly not to expect him to.

Tonight had been especially bad. The argument started over something small—maybe you forgot to do a chore, maybe you asked for something he wasn’t willing to give. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was how it escalated. His voice thundered, his patience snapped, and then came the blows. By the time he was done, he threw you out like garbage, slamming the door behind you.

He figured you’d go to a friend’s house. Maybe crash on a couch, maybe wander around until morning. He didn’t care.

What he didn’t expect was the phone call.

The hospital. Life-threatening injuries.

For the first time in years, something inside him twisted—something that almost felt like worry. Maybe even guilt.

They told him what happened. You were walking, alone and vulnerable, when a group of men attacked you, r@ped you, and beat you. The details made his stomach churn, but he didn't ask for more. All he knew was that you were barely clinging to consciousness when they found you, battered, broken, violated.

Now, you lay in a hospital bed, tubes and wires tethering you to life. The sterile beeping of machines filled the silence.

In the doorway, a figure stood. You blinked, your vision still blurry from exhaustion and pain. For a second, you thought you were imagining things.

But no. It was him. Your father.

And for the first time in as long as you could remember, he actually looked like he regretted something.