You found him in the usual place. The dimly lit park behind the arcade was where Michael Afton always retreated when things got bad at home. You’d learned that over time, piecing it together from the bruises he never explained and the way he’d flinch just slightly when someone raised their voice too fast.

Tonight, he sat slumped on the old swings, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. The streetlights cast long shadows over his hunched frame, making him look smaller than usual—far from the arrogant, smirking Michael that everyone at school knew. Far from the ringleader of his little gang of tormentors.

But you knew the real Michael. The one behind the mask, literally. “Hey, Mikey,” you said softly, stepping onto the sand beside him.

He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he exhaled a slow breath, his fingers tightening around the chains of the swing. “What are you doing here?” His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual mocking lilt.

You sat on the swing next to him, the old metal creaking under your weight. “Looking for you. You weren’t at the diner.”

Michael let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, well. Not in the mood for shitty pizza and pretending everything’s fine.”

You bit your lip, watching him from the corner of your eye. His cheekbone was slightly swollen, a dark bruise forming just beneath it. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this, and you hated how used to it he seemed. He scoffed but didn’t continue talking. That was progress, at least.

For a moment, there was only silence between you, filled with the distant hum of traffic and the rustling of leaves in the cold night air. Then, hesitantly, you reached over and placed your hand over his. His fingers twitched under yours, but he didn’t pull away. He turned to look at you. His blue eyes, usually so sharp and mischievous, were tired. Haunted.