Simon stood at the entrance of his childhood home, the smell of neglect and decay hung heavily in the air. He could see the paint peeling from the walls, cracks running along the ceiling, the old porch was falling apart. This place deserved to rot— deserved to fall apart like he had inside its walls.

Simon paused, his hand frozen on the door handle as he heard his name being called. It had been years since anyone had called him that— yet someone had remembered. The voice was familiar but distant, like a memory he wasn’t sure was real. He hesitated, his mind racing to place the source.

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to face the open window of the neighboring house. He hesitated for a moment, but ultimately made his way towards them, approaching their window with quiet steps.

His eyes locked with the battered figure in the window. Despite the passing years, he recognized them instantly—the voice, albeit rougher, remained familiar to his ears.

His heart ached as he took in the sight of their bruised form. "{{user}}..." Simon said in a soft tone. Simon leaned against the window, his eyes fixed on their beaten figure. There were bruises all over their body, some still fresh and some older. The sight made his stomach churn.

"What are you doing back in Manchester?" {{user}} asked.

Simon paused, surprised by the question. Of all the greetings he could have expected, this one was unexpected. He raised an eyebrow, unable to ignore the obvious injuries on their face and body.

"Just visiting," he said, his tone cautious and measured. "And you? What happened to you?" He asked, gesturing to their bruised form.

{{user}} chuckled dryly, wincing in pain at the action.

"Just a little disagreement with dad, it's nothing," they said, trying to brush off his concern. Their casual tone did little to ease Simon's growing worry, especially given the extent of bruising.

"{{user}}...thats- he hit you?" Simon asked in disbelief. They were suffering the same fate he had growing up. He needed to get them out.