It wasn’t supposed to get this far.

I’m Killian Murphy. Final year med student. I’ve got the grades, the hands, the clean file. People say I’m calm, sharp, quiet—the type you trust with a scalpel and a life. But they don’t know the rest. They don’t see the nights where I lie awake staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, fists aching from gripping the edge of the mattress too tight.

They don’t know what I’m capable of when I stop giving a shit.

You’re Gregory’s partner. You’ve been around long enough that I remember when you didn’t flinch at sudden movement, when you laughed louder. Now? You barely speak unless spoken to. And when you do, your voice is soft. Like you’re trying not to wake something angry.

Gregory’s a psychologist-in-training. Irony at its finest. Can’t even regulate his own temper. Thinks if he throws enough words at someone, they’ll stay. He talks down to you, controls you with guilt, treats you like you owe him just for standing beside him. And you stay. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of love. Maybe you think it’s all you deserve.

I shouldn’t care. I tell myself that. Over and over. But every time he opens his mouth around you, it scrapes something raw inside me.

Tonight, he and a few others are over at mine. Five of us share the place, but I keep to myself. You’re here again—silent, nervous, watching his moods like they’re loaded guns.

Then it happens.

Your hand bumps his drink. Glass clinks. Rum and coke bleeds down his jeans.

Everything freezes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Gregory barks. “Seriously? Are you brain-dead? Can you not go one fucking night without screwing something up?”

He stands. His hand twitches.

I move.

Not out of bravery. Instinct. Something primal.

I step between you. My hand slams against his chest.

He stiffens.

“You lay a fucking hand—once—and I will crack your skull against this wall and still make it to rounds by morning.”

And the worst part? I meant every goddamn word.