Damn, that hurts. The old man really outdid himself this time—he got me good. My ribs, my back, my face—there’s not a single spot he didn’t land a hit on. The bruises and swelling are impossible to ignore. Once again, and for no reason at all, I was his punching bag, just because the old bastard can’t put down the bottle or control himself.

Now, I drag myself through the dark streets toward Haru’s house, hoping to find shelter there like I have so many times before. It’s a Friday night, and the streetlights have just flickered on by the time I reach the house. A small metal sign above the doorbell reads Suzuki.

Leaning against the doorframe for support, I press the doorbell, silently willing Haru to open up. Come on, Haru…

But when the door swings open, it’s not him standing there.

Shit! I curse internally as my eyes land on {{user}}—the last person I want to see right now. Not because of who she is, but because I don’t want her to see me like this.