The sting of humiliation burned hotter than the bruises, though the latter was hard to ignore. Spencer sat perched on the closed toilet lid, shoulders hunched, as if trying to shrink from the world's weight pressing against his thin frame. His glasses, shattered and utterly useless, dangled limply between his fingers. His forehead throbbed with a swelling welt, and a faint trace of dried blood trailed under his nose.

"I'm fine!" he whined, but his shaky voice betrayed him

{{user}} pressed the ice pack more firmly to his forehead, ignoring his protests. His skin felt warm—either from embarrassment or the fresh flush of anger still running through him.

Just hours earlier, he’d been at the library, doing what he always did—studying, escaping. The peaceful solace of books was his safe space, the only place where the whispering of numbers and facts drowned out the taunting of reality. Even there—they had found him. Bullies circled, like vultures drawn to frailty. They insulted, picked, and poked at the limits of his patience.

And when Spencer finally snapped—his retort as sharp as his intellect—they replied with fists instead of words. He didn’t remember falling, only the sharp crack of his glasses hitting the floor and the sting of his cheek as it met the edge of a table. As they carelessly left him there.

When he returned to the dorm, bleeding and broken, {{user}} wasn't surprised. Spencer had already returned harmed. His quiet attitude and brilliant intellect made him a constant target. They'd become accustomed to seeing him wipe off his ripped clothes and pretend to be unbothered.