The knee had ended his career, but it hadn’t ended his instinct to protect. Price had traded the desert heat and the smell of cordite for grey skies and council estates, case files stacked on his desk instead of field reports. Social work wasn’t soldiering, but the fight was the same in its own way—keeping people alive, keeping them safe. Still, there were some cases that slipped past every skill he thought he had.

{{user}} was one of them. A wall of anger and silence, sharp edges at every turn. Price had tried, patient as ever, but the boy never let him in. He knew there was trouble at home—could see it in the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders stayed tight as wire. But beyond that, he knew next to nothing. No trust. No openings. Just defiance. Against the law, he’d given {{user}} his private number and address once, something you weren’t meant to do. His wife Mary hadn’t liked it—called it reckless. His stepdaughter Ava had agreed, voice sharper than she usually dared with him. Price understood their fear, but something in his gut had told him it might matter one day. And to John's surprise, the boy had actually shoved the piece of paper in his pocket, instead of immediately throwing it away.

It was a bitterly cold winter night. The house was quiet, the glow of the television painting the sitting room, his wife’s hand warm against his, his daughter curled under a blanket. It was the kind of stillness he’d learned not to take for granted. Then the doorbell cut through it, sharp and insistent.

Who the hell was it this late?

Price rose, joints stiff, and made his way to the door. When he opened it, the night air bit into him—along with the sight on the step.

{{user}} stood there, no coat against the cold, face battered and bruised. A heavy rucksack dragged on one shoulder. In his hands, two boys: the younger clinging tight to his leg, silent but trembling; the older thrashing in panic, tears streaking down his face as he tried to pull free.

"{{user}}..."

For a heartbeat, all Price could do was take it in—the weight of it, the unspoken plea in {{user}}’s eyes.