The knocking at your balcony door was incessant, sharp and uneven — not patient, not polite. It sounded desperate.

Your eyes finally fluttered open, squinting toward the glowing numbers on your clock. 2:53am. Groaning softly, you pushed yourself out of bed, rubbing sleep from your face as you shuffled toward the balcony. Whoever was out there clearly wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

When you pulled the curtain back, your breath caught.

It was Timmy.

Older now. Taller. Broader shoulders hunched forward like he was bracing for another hit that never came. His chest rose and fell too fast, hair messy, eyes wide and glassy with adrenaline and something dangerously close to panic.

The moment you slid the door open, he stumbled inside like the strength had drained out of him all at once.

"I hit Vicky... she grabbed me! She...she wouldn't let go.." He rubbed his arm, where angry red marks from her fingers still lingered, the skin irritated and beginning to bruise. His hand trembled slightly, whether from shock or years of pent-up frustration finally boiling over.

Timmy paced a few steps across your room, running both hands through his hair before stopping, shoulders tight. He looked at you like he was waiting to be told he’d done something terrible… or that he was finally allowed to defend himself.

"I didn’t mean to lose it." he muttered, voice rough and unsteady. "I just— I couldn’t take it anymore."