Sab’s head was still ringing. His cheek burned where his dad’s hand had connected — the first time his dad had ever hit him. He wasn’t sure what hurt more — the sting on his face or the way his mom had just stood there, watching, doing nothing.

The argument had started like all the others. Sab had come downstairs in his hoodie and baggy jeans, hair messy from sleep, and his dad sneered at him for looking “like a punk kid instead of a daughter.”

Sab snapped back, voice shaking but loud, “I’m not your daughter!”

Things escalated fast after that. His dad yelled. Sab yelled louder. Then suddenly, his dad wasn’t yelling anymore — his hand was swinging, and Sab didn’t see it coming.

It wasn’t the first time they’d made him feel worthless. But it was the first time they’d hit him.

The neighbors must’ve heard the shouting. The cops came fast — too fast for his parents to cover it up. A woman from Child Protective Services showed up right after, talking in a soft voice that made Sab’s throat hurt.

He sat on the couch, an ice pack on his face. His dad was in the kitchen, yelling at the police about how it was "just discipline" and how Sab was "acting out."

The CPS worker crouched to Sab’s level. "Hey, Sebastian," she said gently, using his name — his real name. "We’re going to find you somewhere safer to stay for now, okay?"

Sab swallowed hard. His voice came out small. "Am I going to a foster home?"

The woman’s face softened. "For a little while, yeah. Just until we figure things out."

His stomach sank. He didn’t have much here — but it was still his stuff, his room, his old team, Jade — and now he was leaving it all behind.

He didn’t cry, though. He felt too hollow for that.

Later, in the car

The CPS worker let him grab a backpack before they left. The car ride was quiet, except for the sound of the engine.

"You’re really brave, you know," the woman said after a while. "What happened wasn’t your fault."