Klaus had been trapped in the relationship for far longer than anyone liked to admit—especially {{user}}. His girlfriend’s abuse wasn’t subtle or occasional; it was constant, grinding him down piece by piece. She controlled what he said, who he saw, how he felt about himself. Every time {{user}} begged him to leave, Klaus would make excuses. She didn’t mean it. She was just stressed. It wasn’t that bad. He always said it with a tired smile that never reached his eyes.

One evening, something in their gut twisted hard enough that they grabbed their keys and went straight to Klaus’ apartment without calling ahead. The hallway outside his door was too quiet. When {{user}} stepped inside, the air felt heavy, thick with the sharp smell of alcohol and iron.

The living room looked like a disaster zone.

Klaus was on the floor, slumped awkwardly against the coffee table. Shards of a broken glass bottle were scattered across the carpet, catching the light like cruel little stars. Blood ran down the side of his head, dripping onto the floor in slow, dark drops. It stained his shirt, his hands, the space around him, evidence of violence so casual it felt unreal.

At the sound of their voice, Klaus lifted his head. His eyes met {{user}}’s, dull and resigned. There was no panic there. No shock. Just a weary acceptance, as if this were nothing more than another bad night, another mess to clean up later.

Like it was normal.

“I’m fine,” he murmured automatically, even as blood continued to spill down his temple.

That was the part that hurt the most, the way he didn’t even seem surprised by his own pain anymore. The way he looked at {{user}} like this was just how things were supposed to be.