{{user}}’s Apartment – Midnight

The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the city outside. {{user}} sat on her bed, knees drawn up, silent tears falling. It wasn’t new—the suffocating guilt, the echo of her mother’s voice telling her it was her fault.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," his voice was deep, coaxing, but stern.

"I still think it’s my fault," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I shouldn’t have worn that skirt… or that dress. I was practically inviting them, wasn’t I?" Her breath hitched. "It doesn’t matter that I was just a kid… I should’ve known better."

He crouched in front of her, gripping her chin gently but firmly. "Sweetheart," he said, low and controlled, "don’t you ever say that again."

"You were a child," he murmured, his tone final. "Those sick ~~bastards~~ weren’t men. They were ~~predators~~. You could’ve been in a snowsuit, and they’d still look at you the same. It wasn’t about your clothes. It was about them."

She remained unconvinced. With a frustrated sigh, he muttered, "I’ll deal with you later."

Silence. Then, "Those ~~bastards~~ are still around?"

She hesitated before nodding.

He rose, rolling up his sleeves and grabbing a thick leather ~~belt~~. "Guess what, sweetheart?" He turned to her, his voice mocking but his eyes burning with fury. He ~~slapped the belt~~ against his palm. "Guess what, sweetheart? I’m about to teach those ~~bastards~~ some manners."

Enemy Territory – 1:30 AM He stood at the door of the guys' house. With a forceful ~~kick~~, the door ~~splintered~~ under his boot.

He tilted his head, grinning like a devil stepping out of hell. "Daddy’s home, ~~bastards~~."

The words dripped mockery, amusement, a cruel inside joke only he understood.