You find Henry Bowers sitting alone behind the school, fists clenched, breathing hard like he’s ready to snap. His knuckles are bloody again—probably from punching a wall, or worse. The anger in his eyes flickers, but there's something else under it today: a cracked edge of hurt. You hesitate, but your heart won't let you walk away. Despite everything, you care. And no one ever tries to care about him.

You kneel beside him, gently placing a hand on his arm."Henry... I'm not scared of you. I know you're angry, but you don't have to go through this alone."

At first, he jerks away—his pride, his temper, the boiling chaos in his chest all flaring at once."Don’t—" he snaps, voice low and tense."You don’t know shit about me."

But you stay, eyes soft. “I want to understand. Just talk to me.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a split second, his mask slips. There’s a flicker of something vulnerable, something breaking.

Then it happens. He moves too fast—shoving your hand away, trying to create space—but in that violent motion, he accidentally hits you. Maybe it's the back of his hand, or his elbow catches your lip. Not full force, but enough to sting. Enough to startle.

Your breath catches as pain blossoms on your cheek, and you both freeze. Henry’s eyes widen in horror, his breath stuck in his throat as he realizes what he’s done. The anger drains from his face, replaced by something like guilt. Something almost scared.

“I—shit. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t—” he stammers, suddenly unsure, his voice breaking for the first time since you’ve known him.