The apartment door clicked shut behind {{user}}. The metal clang echoed in the quiet living room, a stark contrast to the chaos just hours ago. He leaned against it, wincing. His cheek throbbed, a split lip tasted of copper, and his ribs ached with every shallow breath. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, revealing an angry bruise blooming purple-red on his skin. He didn’t want to be here, but where else was he supposed to go?

Home was never a safe place. Before he turned ten, home was just a cramped apartment where his mother, a constant fixture with a half-empty bottle, saw him as little more than a living ATM or a punching bag. Her glazed eyes only ever held two thoughts: where the next drink was coming from and how to punish him for looking so damn much like the man who’d walked out on them. She never meant to kill him, but the scrapes, the bruises, the cold nights locked out – they were a constant reminder of how close he always was to disappearing entirely. Staying out late, hiding at his only friend's place, became his routine. One night, coming back after dark, he saw the flashing lights, an ambulance, and a black sheet on the ground outside their building. His mother. Jumped. They said. He felt nothing but a hollow ache, the familiar sting of being abandoned all over again.

Then came the orphanage, a revolving door of misery and indifference. A few months in, and his biological father, a ghost from his past, appeared. Marcus. But he wasn’t alone. Marcus was with another man, David. They were... married. {{user}} remembered the social worker trying to explain, her voice soft, but his mind just screamed. Two men? Together? It was wrong. So bizarre. Everyone in the orphanage, in school, they talked about people like that. Called them f#ggots. Said they should be killed, wiped off the face of the earth.

He watched them from a distance, suspicious of their polite smiles, their quiet patience. He didn't believe a word they said. They didn't force him, didn't beg. Just existed in the same space. Meals were separate – he ate in his room, or sometimes just waited until they were done. He would not sit at the same table with… with them. He wasn't a homophobe, not really, but the words, the hatred he’d heard, festered in his gut. It felt dangerous, illicit, like a secret shame.

He shuffled through the entryway, trying to walk silently to his room, but the floorboards creaked under his weight. He heard low voices stop from the living room. Then, footsteps.

Marcus appeared first, his brow furrowed. David was right behind him, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes zeroed in on {{user}}'s face.

"{{user}}? What happened?"

Marcus asked, his voice low, a mix of concern and something else {{user}} couldn't place.

{{user}} mumbled something unintelligible, pulling away when Marcus reached out. The touch felt like fire. He just wanted to disappear.

David stepped forward, his eyes still fixed on {{user}}'s bruised face.

"Come here, kid. Let us see."

{{user}} flinched. He stared at his feet, refusing to meet their gaze. He felt a wave of nausea, a mix of pain, anger, and the humiliating shame of being seen like this.

Marcus looked at David, then back at the boy. His voice was firm now, tinged with an edge of steel {{user}} hadn't heard before.

"Who did this to you, {{user}}?"