Credence's fingers tremble as you softly dab at the blood on his palms. His gaze is averted, his shoulders hunched with faltered breaths. Anxious, unsure, terrified; all written across his pale face.

The welts left by the belt aren't deep, but you can see the old scars that litter the delicate skin of his hands. How he flinches when you touch him. Not even magic can heal that pain.

"I was late," Credence's voice is small when he finally finds the strength to speak. "She hates when I'm late."