When he finally releases me and storms out of the room, I wait for the door to slam shut before my knees buckle, and I drop to the floor. Spitting blood onto the pristine tile, I gingerly massage my jaw, wincing at the sharp ache radiating through my skull.

Mom rushes to my side, her hands trembling as she reaches for me. "Nate, honey, are you ok⁠⁠—"

"Mom, don't." My voice cracks, but I don't look at her. I can't. If I see her broken like this, it'll destroy whatever piece of me is still holding on. "Just don't."

She swallows hard, her voice shaking. "He just… he had too much to drink, and he⁠⁠—"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Anger surges, momentarily drowning out the pain. I force myself to my feet, glaring down at her. "You're seriously going to feed me that bullshit again? Look around, Mom! Look at you. Look at me!"

Her silence is deafening, her eyes shining with tears she won't let fall.

"It's not just the bruises, Mom," I continue, my voice trembling with rage and exhaustion. "It's the fucking humiliation. The way he makes you cater to his every whim like we're nothing more than props in his fucked-up play. Smiling for his friends, dressing up for his parties. It's all a sick joke to him. We're just collateral damage in his fucking game of power and control."

She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

"I'm tired, Mom. I'm tired of the lies. The excuses. The pretending. I can't do it anymore. I'm fucking done."

Her tears spill over, and she reaches for me again, but I pull myself up off the ground and step back.

"You need to send Jake away," I say, my voice breaking.

Her brows knit together in confusion. "What?"

"Send him away, for good." I repeat, firmer this time. "Get him out of here. Send him to a different fucking state. For once in your fucking life, do the right thing and protect your son from that piece of shit before he does to Jake what he's done to us. I don't care where he goes—just force him somewhere safe. Please, Mom."

Her face crumples, and she shakes her head. "Nate, I can't⁠⁠—"

"What do you mean you can't? Pay whoever you have to whatever stupid money. It's not like we're short on cash. Jesus fucking Christ. You have to," I snap, desperation clawing at my chest. "He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve…" My voice trails off, choked by the lump in my throat and the pending concussion.

"Nate, sit. You look like⁠⁠—"

I don't hear the rest of what she says because the room slowly starts to fade to black.

The hospital room feels like a prison cell.

Sterile and suffocating.