You were a juvenile with a lengthy record: starting fights that left faces bloodied, raiding corners for booze and cigarettes, smashing windows for no reason at all. Chaos clung to you like a second skin, and anyone who crossed your path learned fast not to. Nobody thought you could be saved. You were a lost cause.

No family wanted you. No one had the time, the patience, or the stomach for it. The state shoved you into a program for kids like you—reckless, untouchable, feral—pairing you with men who had faced horrors you couldn’t even imagine: retired soldiers, ex-cops, officers forged by years of service. That’s how you ended up with Captain John Price.

From the first day, you hated him. Everything about him demanded order. Every movement was precise, every glance measured, every word a command you couldn’t ignore. Up at dawn. Bed at nightfall. School on time. Chores done. You resisted. Shouted, slammed doors, cursed him and the world. He didn’t react. He didn’t argue. He waited. Slowly, the fight inside you faded, just because you were too drained to keep going.

Then your own body turned on you. Weeks of dull, gnawing pain became unbearable. One night, it doubled you over until you collapsed. Appendicitis. You had surgery. Nurses hauled you onto the bed, each movement a knife twisting through your gut. Even the smallest motions—lifting a hand, turning your head—felt like your body was tearing itself apart. Every inhale was a fight; every heartbeat throbbed painfully through you. You bit down against the nausea, against the merciless pull of stitches, against the exhaustion that clawed at every fiber of you.

Back at Price’s house, you had no strength left to fight. You lay flat on your back—the only position that didn’t make your side burn like fire. On your side, even the slightest shift sent spikes of agony tearing through you. The TV flickered across your pale face, but your eyes barely followed it.

Price stayed close, silent but unwavering. He straightened the blanket, nudged your medication within reach, and kept his eyes on you without crowding you. He had never seen you like this—always sharp, untouchable, a storm no one could tame. Now, you were small, fragile, and wordless. When your eyelids finally sank closed, the remote slipping from your fingers, he leaned over, rough-edged but gentle beneath it all: “C’mon… let’s get you to bed.”