The knock at the door was frantic, each pound reverberating through the quiet house. {{user}} jumped from the couch and rushed to open it. What they saw stole the air from their lungs.

Jaxson Mallory stood there, barely upright. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut, blood smeared along his brow, and his shirt torn and stained. Rain dripped from his hair, mingling with the dirt and blood streaked across his skin.

“Don’t—don’t freak out,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, cracked around the edges. He was trying to sound nonchalant, but the tremor in his tone betrayed him. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, his knuckles bruised and raw, gripping it for support.

“Let me in for a second, yeah?” he muttered. “Just need to talk.” He didn’t wait for an invitation, stepping inside with a staggered gait. He collapsed into a chair, his shoulders slumped forward, head down. His three siblings followed, Rosie, Hollie and Ollie, their faces flushed with tears.

“I need you to do something for me,” he spoke his voice suddenly firm. His eyes locked onto theirs, that pale blue gaze intense despite the swelling.

“Take care of my siblings,” he said, his voice cracking on the last word. “Please.”

The air seemed to shift, the weight of his request pressing down on them like a boulder. They stared at him, uncomprehending. “What are you talking about?”

He sighed, leaning back in the chair, his head tipping toward the ceiling. “I can’t—I can’t keep doing this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can handle my da. I can take the hits. But Rosie, Hollie and Ollie? They don’t deserve this.”