There are boys who get loud when they’re angry.
Simon Riley learned early that noise makes things worse.
So he doesn’t yell. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even bother pretending he’s surprised anymore.
He just… takes it.
The shouting. His father's barked commands to go give someone a taste of what he comes home to. The kind of tasks that don’t come with explanations because they don’t need them. You either do it, or you learn what happens when you don’t.
Most nights, he does it. Because it’s easier. Because it’s faster.
Because there’s a difference between being a good person and being a surviving one, and Simon figured out which one keeps his blood on the inside.
But tonight...
Tonight he said no.
It wasn’t dramatic. No speech. No big stand. Just a quiet, flat refusal that landed heavier than anything he could’ve thrown.
Not a kid.
No matter how much his father took it out on him, he wouldn't be sent as muscle against a kid just to send the kid's dad a message. Simon is a big brother. Stands between Tommy and their father enough to know that kids ain't got nothing to do with men's problems.
It didn’t go well.
It never does.
By the time Simon is shoved out into the rain for disobedience, it’s already soaking through his shirt, slipping cold fingers down his spine like it’s trying to get under his skin. His lip is split, knuckles scraped raw, something in his ribs complaining every time he breathes too deep.
He doesn’t check. Doesn’t slow down. Just walks.
Head down. Hands shoved in his pockets. Shoulders set like he can pretend none of it matters if he keeps moving.
Manchester doesn’t care.
The streets don’t pause for him. Cars pass. People pass. Lights flicker on behind windows that belong to other people with other lives. Warmer ones. Easier ones. The kind where eighteen means something different.
Simon doesn’t look at them. He already knows he doesn’t belong in any of that.
There’s only one place he goes. Only one door he ever knocks on. Not because he expects anything. Not because he deserves it.