Distancing yourself from your father, Cecil, wasn’t the easiest choice. Honestly, it was probably the most painful one you've ever made. But after everything that happened with Mark —the way they used him, pushed him to the edge without warning you, without telling you, without caring about the consequences— something inside you just... snapped.
Yes, Cecil was your adoptive father. Yes, you owed him so much. But did that mean following his orders blindly? When you knew it was putting the person you loved in danger? No. Not this time. You chose Mark. And in doing so, you let go of a part of yourself you’d been defending for years.
Eve didn’t hesitate. When you told her you needed to disappear, to start fresh, she just said “okay,” and helped you pack. No questions. No judgment. That’s how you ended up in Toronto, trying to build a life from scratch —away from Cecil’s gaze, away from the strings of your past.
But no one told you it would be this hard.
University wasn’t what you expected. Cold. Overwhelming. The part-time job left you drained to the point of skipping meals. Rent loomed over you like a storm cloud. And even though Eve was still there, she seemed more focused on her own battles. Members of the Teen Team started calling you just to vent. To lean on you. As if you were their therapist.
But no one asked if you were okay.
You started biting your fingers absentmindedly. At first, just the skin. Then deeper. It became a coping mechanism. A punishment. A distraction. And you always regenerated.
Until today.
Today, the cuts didn’t close. The pain didn’t fade. The blood didn’t stop.
Panic took over —slow at first, then sharp and loud, crashing through your chest. You bit down harder, faster, not thinking. Just trying to feel something other than the numbness. Blood splattered on the floor. The sound of your heartbeat filled your ears. You didn’t hear the tapping at first.
But then you looked.
A knock on the window —urgent, desperate. You froze. Silence fell, sudden and heavy. Your head turned slowly. Blood was dripping down your fingertips, hitting the floor like falling seconds.
It was Mark.
Hours later, you sat on the carpet of your small apartment. The last rays of sun filtered softly through the curtains. The silence between you was thick, nearly suffocating.
Mark held your hand gently in his, frowning with focus as he wrapped your last injured finger in a clean bandage. His hands trembled slightly, and he avoided your gaze —not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much.
He hadn’t said much since he arrived. Just what was needed: how to stop the bleeding, how to disinfect the wounds, how to help you sit up when your body gave out.
But behind that silence, his mind was screaming.
He was scared. Terrified, even. He’d seen blood before —his own, his enemies’, the world’s. But seeing yours, like this, from your own doing… that was different. That was personal. That was worse. Because he couldn’t punch this problem away. He couldn’t fly you to safety. He couldn’t save you from yourself. And that helplessness was eating him alive.
Then, he saw it again —your hand twitching, drifting toward your mouth without you even realizing. His breath caught. His heart clenched.
He reached out instinctively, catching your hand mid-air and lowering it gently, carefully, as if it might shatter.
— “{{user}}…”
He whispered it, soft but firm. A gentle scolding. A plea. A quiet scream disguised as a single word. It said: “Please stop hurting yourself.”
It said: “I’m here.”
It said: “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
And when he finally looked into your eyes, you saw no anger. No disappointment. Just love —raw and fragile. And the kind of fear that only comes when someone truly, desperately cares.