The rec room buzzed with muffled laughter and faint holiday music. Strings of cheap lights flickered above tables piled with snacks, their glow casting soft patterns on the walls. Price stood near the punch bowl, arms crossed, scanning the gathering. He hadn’t seen them yet.

You—the “coldhearted killer,” as the whispers went—had stayed in your room. Price had expected it. The rumor mill in juvie wasn’t kind, and with your story, the isolation was inevitable.

“They shot their parents,” one kid had whispered when you first arrived. “Cold-blooded,” someone else added. “Didn’t even flinch.”

The truth, as Price knew, was far messier. You hadn’t snapped out of nowhere. It had been years of pain, escalating violence at home, and the crushing weight of failure—failing school, failing to meet impossible expectations, failing to endure the abuse any longer. The gun had been there, your father’s hand raised again. The rage and despair blurred together, and suddenly, it was over.

But the world didn’t care, to the other juveniles, you were just a killer. The nickname stuck, and so did the fear. The sidelong glances, the muttered insults, even the occasional shove—it all built a wall no therapy could tear down.

Sitting on the edge of your bed that Christmas night, the laughter from the party felt like it belonged to another world. You stared at the dull cement wall.

Finally, you stood. You weren’t sure why they wanted to go. Maybe to prove something. Maybe because being alone felt worse.

The room went silent when you entered. Forks clinked on plates, laughter dissolved into murmurs. Heads turned, some glaring, some whispering. The weight of the stares froze you in place, the knot in their stomach tightening.

That’s them,” someone hissed. “The killer.”

Price moved quickly to intercept, his face calm, unreadable. “Glad you made it kiddo” he said, his tone low, steady.

You nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Let’s get you something to eat. Aye’?”