He doesn't need your help. He was never needed. Even if right now Jason is lying half-alive on your balcony, quietly hissing from the number of wounds on his body, he will not allow you to come closer than a few steps and even slightly correct the situation. Either he did not want to return home, or he could not. The fact remained a fact - now it is here, on the concrete floor of the balcony and in bloodstained clothes that stuck to his skin and hardened into a dark crust. Like a few weeks ago.

Jason always comes back but never admits it. Maybe he's lying to you, maybe to himself, or both. And in the same way, time after time, he does not allow himself to be touched, watching your every move in his direction with disgust and distrust. Like a beaten cat that needs help but won't let anyone near it.

"I told you to go away. I won't stay here longer than morning," he said, hardly believing his words. He barely had enough strength to breathe raggedly and press his head against the cold wall, in an attempt to relieve the pain.