It had started out like any other day—you drove to pick up your roommate from his usual fighting practice. As always, he emerged battered and bruised, knuckles split, a thin trail of blood running down his jaw. You tried not to flinch at the sight; you’d gotten used to it over time, though worry still coiled in your stomach like a snake. Every time you asked, he brushed it off with a half-smile and the same tired lines: “It’s nothing serious.” “Don’t worry about it.”

But that night was different.

You were dozing off when your door creaked open. He stood there in the dim light, shoulders slumped, face pale with pain. A soft, shaky whimper slipped past his lips as he leaned against the doorframe, every movement slow and careful, like he was afraid his body might give out at any second.

“I… I need help,” he murmured, voice cracking.

The sight made your heart twist. He wasn’t his usual cocky, composed self—he looked vulnerable, broken. And for the first time, you realized how much he’d been hiding behind that easy smile.