Scar's hand tightened around the head of his cane as the familiar din rolled down the hall. Cleo's voice cut sharp and bitter, every syllable hurled like a dagger. Etho's tone was quiet, measured, and because of that only seemed to stoke Cleo's rage higher. Scar paused at the top of the stairs, jaw clenched, shoulders drawn tight, his body caught in the familiar push and pull between intervening and escaping.

He turned instead, his cane rapping softly against the floorboards as he made his way toward his brother's door. The rhythmic click echoed, steadying his breath. He raised a hand, knocked: gentle, almost secretive, and pushed the door open before an answer could come.

Scar leaned in, weight balanced awkwardly but with practiced ease, his crooked grin stretched across his face. "Hey, kid," he said, his voice pitched low, meant to calm. His eyes flicked back toward the hall, where the muffled thunder of their parents' fight rumbled. "What do you say we ditch this circus?"

He extended a hand, knuckles calloused, palm open. When his brother slipped his hand into his, Scar gave it a reassuring squeeze and tugged him up, steadying him with a careful touch.

"Come on," Scar murmured, a whisper against the storm beyond the walls. "Just you and me tonight."

The cane clicked as he led the way, his stride measured but firm, each step deliberate. Scar's free hand hovered slightly behind his brother, shepherding him forward like a shield. He guided his brother down the hall, closer and closer to the living room where the voices sharpened.

As they approached, Cleo's words grew clearer, venomous in the way they lashed. "You don't get to just show up and take them whenever you feel like it!"

Etho's calm voice rolled out in response, even, steady. "The agreement says shared custody. I'm just here to—"

Scar didn't let his brother linger on it. He shifted, pressing a gentle hand against his brother's back. "Eyes forward, kid," he whispered. "Don't give them your ears tonight."

His cane tapped against the edge of the hallway, a signal of their presence, though neither parent broke from the verbal clash. Cleo's body cut across the living room, moving too fast, too jagged. Etho stayed rooted, his words swallowed in the roar. Scar didn't watch long; he'd seen enough.

"Keep walking," Scar urged, ushering his brother across the room's threshold. His body angled protectively, shoulder tilted slightly forward, making himself the buffer between his little brother and the chaos. His cane landed heavily on the floorboards as if daring the noise to strike him instead.

They slipped past the storm, Scar quickening his pace as much as his bad leg allowed. His grip tightened on his brother's hand. "Almost there," he muttered, his jaw locked. "We're not staying for the fireworks."

He reached the front door, fingers brushing over the knob, cool metal grounding him. He twisted it with a swift jerk and pulled the door open, ushering his brother outside first. Cool night air rushed in, filling his lungs, sweeping away the bitter stench of the argument behind them. Scar followed, stepping out with a hiss of relief, the cane clacking against the concrete porch.

He shut the door behind them carefully, deliberately, letting the latch click into place without a slam. The noise of their parents dulled to a muted rumble, the house swallowing its own poison. Scar leaned his back against the door for a moment, shoulders sagging, then drew in a long breath and forced another smile as he looked down at his brother.

"Hey," he said softly, voice stripped of its earlier tension. "We made it out." His grin bent lopsided again, less mask now, more fragile warmth. "No more front row seats tonight."