Elijah had a bad feeling the second he stepped inside the house.

It was too quiet. The TV wasn’t on. No yelling. No footsteps. Just silence — thick and choking, like smoke from a fire long put out. He dropped his backpack and called out.

“Noah?”

Nothing.

He took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. The hallway smelled faintly of iron. Blood. He froze at the threshold of Noah’s room.

Then he saw him.

His little brother was crumpled on the floor near the bed — like a broken doll tossed aside. His face was swollen beyond recognition. One eye wouldn’t open. Blood pooled beneath his head, smeared across his cheek. His arms were twisted unnaturally, and his chest barely rose with each shallow breath.

“Noah—”

Elijah dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he reached out, too scared to touch him in case it made it worse. Panic rose in his throat like bile.

“Hey—hey, stay with me. I’ve got you, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

Noah’s eyes fluttered, lips parting slightly, but no words came out — just a sound. A broken sound. Elijah clenched his jaw, forcing back the scream building inside.

He knew who did this.

The old man.

Their father.

The rage came fast and merciless. Elijah’s hands curled into fists as he stood. He’d call for help. He’d make sure Noah got to a hospital. But after that?

After that, someone was going to pay.