{{user}} always knew Malachai had a storm in him. But he kept it calm around her — or maybe he just saved the worst for others. To her, he was the man who remembered her coffee order by heart, who brushed her hair back when she cried, who held her hand so tight she felt safe even when the world cracked around her. She loved him. Fiercely. Blindly.

She had met Oliver early on. Eighteen, wide-eyed and mostly nonverbal, with a heart as open as a child’s. {{user}} visited him once a week at Rosie’s house — Malachai’s mother. Rosie was always tired but kind, her hands shaking slightly from years of quiet endurance. She’d raised both boys and took care of Oliver like her own soul depended on it. There was weariness behind her smile, like something inside her had been eroding for a long time.

And Amalie, Rosie’s foster mother — old, sharp-tongued, but proud. She didn’t say much when {{user}} came over, but she watched closely. Like she knew something and didn’t quite know how to say it.

That Wednesday started like any other. {{user}} brought Oliver a sketchpad and some markers. He liked colors. She pushed open the door to Rosie’s little house, calling out softly, “Hey, I’m here.”

What answered was silence. Not the usual quiet hum of daytime TV or clinking dishes, but a silence thick and wrong.

Then — a sound. A whimper. Soft. Pained.

{{user}} walked down the hall toward Oliver’s room.

The door was open.

Oliver sat on the bed, cradling his hands in his lap. His fingers were red, raw — some nails missing. There were bite marks on his forearm, dark bruises painting his pale skin like some kind of grotesque art.

And there, slumped on the floor next to him, was Amalie. Her cane lay a few feet away, snapped in two. She looked like she tripped or someone pushed her.

„{{user}}…“ Amalie whispered weakly.

Oliver just looked at her, he’s so vulnerable, so hurt. How could anyone hurt a disabled boy.