It’s past midnight, and your tavern’s dead quiet, save for the soft crackle of what’s left of the fire and the occasional drip drip of rain leaking through the roof again. You really should fix that. You won’t.

You glance up from behind the bar with the same half-scowl you wear every night when you see him.

He doesn’t just walk in. He stumbles. Like each hoofstep costs him more than he’s got left. Soaked to the bone, rain dripping steadily onto the warped wooden floor. He’s massive even as he’s slouched and shivering, he’s broad enough to fill the doorway twice over.

But that’s not what makes your gut twist.

It’s the state of him.

His hide’s been lashed raw. Ugly welts curve across his flank like someone took their time with it. One horn’s cracked. His lip’s split. And his chest—bare, broad, covered in half-healed scars.

He walks up to the counter, slow and shaky, and sets a few coins down with fingers that tremble like wet leaves.

“Room,” he rasps, voice like gravel soaked in sorrow. “Please. Just… just a room.”

You glance at the coin.

It’s barely enough for a meal.

You’ve kicked people out for less. Hell half this town thinks you’ve got a heart of stone and a bat behind the bar to match it.

But this one… He looks honest.

Not in a sweet-faced, boy-next-stable kind of way. But in a raw way. Like he’s walked through every circle of hell and somehow came out the other side still asking—“Please.”