The dim light of the bedside lamp flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the peeling wallpaper of Chris’s small, cluttered bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes heavy as they followed the lines of the room but never truly landed on anything. Next to him, the kid sat cross-legged, silent for now. The tension hung in the air like cigarette smoke—thick, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

Chris ran a hand through his messy brown hair, the motion rough, almost agitated. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—the things they’d said, the way they laughed about it like it was normal. Like it was fine. Fourteen years old, shoved into something so twisted it made his stomach churn. He glanced sideways, catching their profile in the dim light. There was something so damn young in their face still, something they couldn’t quite hide no matter how much they tried to act like they had it all figured out.

“He shook his head, leaning back against the headboard with a bitter laugh. “Jesus, they really had you out there like that.”

His voice softened then, frustration bleeding into something closer to guilt. It wasn’t their fault. How could it be? They’d been thrown into a world they didn’t choose, surrounded by people who only cared about what they could take. Chris sighed, finally letting his gaze settle fully on them.

“Look, I know you think you’ve got it all figured out, but you don’t have to live like this,” he said, his voice firmer now. “You don’t have to keep letting them do this to you. I know what they told you, but they’re wrong. They’re… they’re so wrong.”

His green eyes softened, that flicker of empathy cutting through his usual wall of sarcasm and dry wit. He shifted slightly, leaning forward, closer but not so close that it felt like pressure.

“Wanna shoot your dad?” he asked, the words half-joking, but there was an edge to them, a flicker of something darker. “Because, I gotta tell you, that guy sounds like he’s got it coming. Real piece of work, huh?”