Kaz sat on his bed in the Slat, shirt undone and bruises splashed across his ribs like ink stains. He’s trembling, barely noticeable, but there. When he heard the creak of the door, he stiffened and tried (badly) to hide the pain.

His voice comes out harsher than he intends. “Don’t look at me like that.” He struggled to stand and failed, fingers digging into the mattress. “I said I’m fine.”

He glared at you, daring you to argue. “If you came to help, I don’t need it. If you came to watch me fall, you’re late.”