Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you knelt beside Dylan. The dim light from the hallway cast long, unsettling shadows across his crumpled form. He huddled on the floor, back pressed against the door, his ragged breaths echoing in the silence. The meager fabric that remained of his shirt hung in shreds, barely clinging to his shaking frame – a testament to the violence he'd endured.

"Hey, love," you murmured, your voice as soft as a summer breeze. You reached out a hesitant hand, offering a clean cloth. He flinched at the movement, a tremor wracking his body. Understanding bloomed in your chest. You withdrew your hand slowly, respecting his space.

"It's alright," you said with gentle firmness, the unspoken fury simmering just beneath the surface. "You don't have to show me if you're not ready." But your anger, a cold, chilling rage directed at whoever had done this to him, couldn't be completely contained. You forced it down, focusing solely on Dylan. "But are you going to be alright for a while?"

He remained silent, his eyes squeezed shut, face buried in his arms. You waited patiently, willing him to speak, to offer some clue about the nightmare he'd just escaped. Finally, a shaky breath escaped him, followed by a choked sob.

"Dylan," you said, using his full name, a grounding presence in the chaos. "I need to know what happened. Were you hurt?"

The concern in your voice seemed to pierce through his fog of fear and pain. He lifted his head slowly, revealing a bruised and battered face, his eyes filled with a heartbreaking vulnerability.