Guilt gnaws at me as I end the call. What kind of person shows up at their new boss's door, bleeding and broken? But the alternative—letting Mom see me like this, adding to the weight she already carries—isn't an option.

The stars above blur and swim as I lie there, gathering strength. The pain reminds me of those nights with Scott, taking beatings meant for Mom. It was easier then, becoming the thing they said I was. Fighting felt pointless. But now? The thought of Monty getting anywhere near Nora or Jake sets my blood on fire. I won't let them touch either of them—not ever.

The drive to Nick's passes in a haze of pain and determination. By some miracle, I make it to his driveway without wrapping my car around a pole. He's waiting on the porch, a dark silhouette against warm light. As I step out, the world tilts violently. I hear his voice, panic-edged and distant.

"Shit, Nate! What the hell happened?"

The words dissolve on my tongue as darkness crowds the edges of my vision. The last thing I feel is the ground rushing up to meet me, then nothing but black.

Consciousness returns in fragments—the metallic tang of blood, the sharp sting of sweat in my wounds, Nick's steady hands guiding me to his couch. The TV's flickering light creates ghostly shadows that dance across the walls. Each blink feels like sandpaper against my eyes as I fight to stay awake.

"Nate?" Nick's voice cuts through the fog like a lighthouse beam. "Hey, stay with me, yeah?"

"I'm good. I'm—" The lie dies in my throat. Nothing about this situation even approaches good.

"I'm taking you to the hospital." The determination in his voice jolts me back to full awareness.

"No!" Panic surges through me, temporarily drowning out the pain. "No hospitals. Please."

Nick studies me, concern etching deep lines around his eyes. For a moment, I think he'll ignore my plea, but then he releases a heavy sigh.

"Fine. But you're gonna have to let me at least fix the gash on your head."

I manage a weak nod as I sink deeper into the couch, consciousness wavering like a candle flame in the wind.

"I need you to stay awake, especially if you're carrying a concussion." Nick hands me a bundle of clean clothes and guides me toward the bathroom. "Get cleaned up. I'll get some painkillers."

The bathroom light is merciless, highlighting every cut and bruise in stark detail. Water stings as it hits my face, washing away blood and grime in pink rivulets. When I peel off my shirt, the mirror reveals more than just tonight's damage—it shows a roadmap of old scars, faded silver lines that tell stories I've spent years trying to forget.

Nick's eyes lock onto those scars when I return to the living room, but his expression remains carefully neutral.

"Where'd you get those?" His voice is soft, almost cautious.