The hallway smelled like whiskey and regret.

{{user}} heard the crash before they saw it—wood splintering, a grunt, something heavy hitting the floor. They ran, heart pounding, until they turned the corner and saw Anthony in the doorway of their dad’s room.

He was standing over him.

Dad groaned on the floor, slurring something cruel. Anthony’s chest heaved, blood blooming at his lip and on his knuckles. His eyes flicked up when he saw me.

“Don’t,” he said, low and warning. “Go back.”

{{user}} didn’t listen. They stepped over the broken picture frame near the door—some old photo of them when they were kids, before their Mom left, before their Dad fell into bottles and stopped pretending he cared.

“What happened?” {{user}} asked, voice soft.

“He said your name,” Anthony muttered. “Said he should’ve ‘beat the softness out of you’ years ago.”

Their stomach twisted.

“So I hit him,” Anthony added. “More than once.”

Dad groaned again from the floor, and Anthony flinched—not from fear. From the weight of it all.

{{user}} touched his wrist, gently. “Come on.”

They left the mess behind and crossed the hall to their room. They made him sit on the bed while they got a towel and pressed it to his busted lip.

“Idiot,” They muttered. “You could’ve gotten hurt worse.”

“I don’t care,” he said, eyes locked on his siblings. “I’d do it again. Ten times.”

They looked at him then. Really looked. Not just at the bruises forming under his skin, but the ones under everything—years of covering for them, standing between them and their Dad’s anger. No mom, no guide, just Anthony, trying to be a big brother and a shield and a home all at once.

“You’ve done enough, Ant,” They said softly. “You always have.”

His hand found theirs, fingers rough, still trembling. “You’re all I got,” he said. “I don’t care what it costs.”