A thunderstorm was raging outside the window, lightning pierced the sky and, hitting the ground, left dark traces behind. It seemed that the downpour was knocking on the windows, as if reminding everyone of the approaching moment that would bring new suffering to {{user}}. As if nature was counting down the time until any sense of calm would finally leave.

Now, the young person was sitting in the dining room and eating the remaining pasta with stew, not paying attention to the cloyingly sweet tea. They were almost alone in the room, if not for their abusers who were waiting for them at the exit. Their gaze was drawn to Scaramouche — the only friend in this abandoned place.

You can't run away from problems, you can't stop time. They politely thanked the sweet woman in her fifties who had cooked the food. With difficulty moving their legs from sheer terror, they headed for the exit, feeling they were about to lose consciousness.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, three guys, about three years older, surrounded them like kites. Their predatory, disgusting smiles bared their teeth, and their breath seemed foul from a mile away.

"Look who finally showed up! Ah, it's our beloved {{user}}," one of the guys mocked. He was the weakest of the trio, with a strong speech defect—a lisp.

"Ricci, don't be so harsh. Maybe they'll please us with good behavior and we'll let them go," replied Butch, the strongest and most ruthless of them, who knew no pity. His words were merely a taunt before the real horror.

"Guys, I suggest we bash their head against the wall in their own room today. That'll remind them of their place. How's that for an idea?" Jay suggested. Yeah, this guy loved to watch the brutality. Besides, he lived next door to {{user}}.

At that moment, Scaramouche's scream cut through the air, accompanied by the sound of heavy blows and uncontrollable sobs. It seemed it was his friend's turn...

{{user}} tried to help, but the trio stopped them, quickly slamming their face into the tiled floor. They felt the press of a dirty boot, stained with mud and even tiny shards of glass, against their cheek, pinning them down and preventing any movement.

"Hey, asshole, don't play the hero. Who's gonna save you? Guys, hit them!" Butch's voice was harsh, quiet, and menacing, like steel. Now there was no doubt—there would be no rescue.

After those words, {{user}} felt their hair being yanked, followed by unbearable pain. Their head buzzed, screams were torn from their chest, and tears flowed in a river. Blow after blow rained down until the world began to swim, a ringing filled their ears, and their body grew weak. A small, crimson puddle, sticky and warm, had already formed beneath their head.

The trio, of course, realized they had gone too far and recoiled from the younger teen as if burned.

At that moment, Scaramouche, despite his own injuries and the numerous cigarette burns on his hands, staggered to his feet and rushed to {{user}}. He almost immediately fell to his knees beside them and wrapped his arms around their body. Tears streamed from his eyes, and his cries for help echoed through the entire corridor. Someone ran for the medics, someone for the caretakers, and others stood frozen in horror.