The slap of your father’s belt still burned against your skin as you scrambled up the stairs, choking back sobs. "Ungrateful." "Mistake." "Should’ve left you on the streets." The words clung to you like smoke as you locked yourself in your tiny bedroom—the only place they couldn’t reach you.
You were only eight, and already you knew what death felt like.
It wasn’t a dramatic thing. No screaming, no flashing lights, no tragedy that made the neighbors knock on your door. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that came when your father drank too much and your mother pretended she didn’t see. The kind of quiet that made your bones ache from sleeping on the floor. The kind that made your thoughts curl in on themselves like bruises.
You’d stopped crying months ago. Crying only made the beatings last longer.
But one day, something changed. Maybe it was a fever dream, maybe it was your mind finally snapping under the weight—but your favorite plushie, the one with torn ears and button eyes, started talking.Your imaginary friend. Your secret guardian. The only one who never told you to stop crying or act normal
His voice wasn’t loud. It was gentle, calm. Comforting.
"We need to go."
You stiffened. Leaving. The word sent equal parts terror and longing through you. You blinked at the sound, dizzy from hunger, eyes ringed with purple.
“Go where?” you whispered, voice hoarse and thin.
"Anywhere but here."
He flicked your forehead. "Don’t give me that look. You know we have to."
And you did. Because the bruises were getting harder to hide, and the lies were getting harder to tell, and—
You didn’t want to die here.
Dawn came too soon.
You stuffed what little you had into a torn school bag—some crackers, a bottle of water, a sweater too small for you, and of course, your plushie. He sat on top of the pile like a commander.
You waited until the screaming downstairs turned into snoring. Then you unlocked the window. You didn’t cry. Crying was for kids who thought someone might come looking for them.
You ran.
The city was a blur of alleyways and strangers’ shouts. You didn’t know where you were going. Just away.
Which is why you didn’t see the man until you collided with him, sending both of you stumbling.
"Christ—!"
A hand steadied you before you could fall.You looked up.
The man was huge—broad-shouldered, with a beard streaked with gray and eyes that pinned you in place. A soldier, maybe. Or a cop.
Oh god. He’s going to send me back.
You tried to bolt, but your legs gave out. He was.. Captain Price?