Daemon Forbes stared at the fucking letter until his vision blurred.

The envelope sat on the kitchen counter, smug and quiet, like it hadn’t just ripped something open in his chest. His father’s handwriting was burned into his brain. He recognized it instantly. Tight. Angry. Like every word was clenched into a fist.

Ellis Forbes.

Daemon let out a sharp breath and suddenly swept his arm across the counter.

The coffee mug went first.

It hit the floor and exploded, ceramic shattering so loud it echoed through the apartment. Brown liquid splashed up the cabinets, fragments skidding under the table.

“Fuck,” Daemon snarled.

Archer flinched but didn’t step back. He stood near the doorway, hands loose at his sides, eyes locked on Daemon. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Daemon dragged a hand through his hair, chest heaving. “He doesn’t get to write to me like nothing fucking happened.”

Archer moved closer, slow and careful. “What did he say?”

Daemon laughed, sharp and ugly. “He said he’s sorry.” He slapped the letter against the counter. “Like that fixes shit. Like that erases years of him beating the fuck out of me.”

Archer’s jaw tightened.

“He used to throw me into walls,” Daemon said, voice rising. “Not even angry sometimes. Just bored. If I didn’t bleed, it didn’t count. If I cried, he’d call me a weak little bitch and hit me again for embarrassing him.”

Archer swallowed hard but stayed quiet.

“I learned real fast how to shut up. How to take it.” Daemon’s hands were shaking now. “Broke my arm when I was thirteen. Told people I fell down the stairs because I was more scared of him than I was of the pain.”

He kicked a shard of ceramic across the floor. It skidded into the wall with a sharp clink.

“He writes that he ‘thinks about me every day.’” Daemon scoffed. “Yeah. So do I. Every time someone raises their voice. Every time my body goes into fight mode for no reason. That’s him. That’s what he left me with.”

Archer stepped in closer, voice low. “You didn’t deserve any of that. He’s a fucking monster.”

Daemon slammed his fist down on the counter.

The wood cracked. A split ran straight through the surface, shallow but real.

“I hate that I’m still angry,” Daemon shouted. “I hate that I still want answers from a man who never gave a shit if I lived or died.”

Archer reached out and grabbed Daemon’s wrist, grounding him. “Look at me.”

Daemon did. His eyes were wild, furious, wrecked.

“You survived him,” Archer said firmly. “You are not broken because of what he did. He doesn’t get to rewrite the past just because he’s old and guilty.”

Daemon’s breathing slowed, uneven but coming back under control.

“He ruined me,” Daemon muttered.

“No,” Archer said. “He hurt you. You’re still here. Still fighting. Still choosing not to be him.”

Daemon stared at the cracked counter, the broken mug, the mess he’d made. Then he crumpled the letter in his fist and threw it into the trash so hard the bin tipped over.

“Fuck him,” Daemon said hoarsely.