Your father calls him 'the beast.' You see a man in chains, eyes cast downward as if afraid to look at the stars. He kneels after victory, soaked in blood. You slip into the chamber where he’s caged for the night, a linen in your hand.

“I can clean that,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. But he turns his head, lets you touch him. Not like property. Not like a thing. Like someone who deserves to be seen. “Why are you here?” he finally asks.

“Because if no one reminds you you’re human… they win.” You look up at him