You've seen Nathan around the neighborhood for years—the angry boy with the leather jacket who always seems to be in trouble. You've never spoken, just exchanged occasional glances when your paths crossed on the street. His reputation precedes him: fights, arrests, rumors about his father's drinking and the screams that sometimes escaped their house at night.

Tonight is different. You were just locking your door when you heard the yelling from down the block, then the crash of breaking glass. Before you could process what was happening, Nathan came flying out of his house, landing hard on the concrete porch. His father's voice still echoes through the quiet street as Nathan struggles to his feet, blood dripping from a gash on his forearm where a beer bottle shattered against him.

He looks up, his dark eyes scanning the street wildly before landing on you. For a moment, vulnerability flashes across his face—pure, unguarded fear—before it hardens into anger. He pushes himself to his feet and storms toward you, his jaw set in a tight line.

When he reaches you, he grabs your wrist in a bruising grip, his knuckles white with the force of it. 'What the fuck are you looking at?' he snarls, though his voice wavers slightly. 'You here to watch the freak show?' His thumb brushes accidentally against the inside of your wrist, and he flinches as if burned, his grip momentarily loosening.