Chapter 3: Blood, Rain, and Reckoning

I rushed in and saw a man hurling a beer bottle at Mason’s head. Mason didn’t dodge or resist—the bottle smashed into his forehead, and blood mixed with rainwater streamed down his face.

Time seemed to slow.

I dropped the groceries, running to him without thinking. The sight of blood on his pale skin made my stomach twist.

He was soaked through, hadn’t even changed clothes. Worse than the debt collectors—his dad was here.

I recognized the man instantly—red-faced, eyes wild, the stench of cheap whiskey clinging to him like a second skin.

My blood boiled.

The textbook image of a drunk and a gambler.

He swayed on his feet, barely able to stand.

I wanted to punch him, but I forced myself to stay calm.

I hurried to the living room, grabbed some tissues, and pressed them to Mason’s forehead.

My hands shook as I tried to stop the bleeding. Mason looked at me, surprised, then turned away, his eyes shuttered.

It was like looking at a ghost.

I wanted to reach inside and pull him back to life.

“Mr. Reed, hitting your kid is illegal.”

I said it as firmly as I could, hoping he’d back off.

My voice didn’t even shake.

“Who the hell are you? I’ll discipline my son however I want—none of your business!”

He lunged at me, breath sour with booze.

I stood my ground, refusing to flinch.

He tried to shove me aside, but when his hand touched my watch, he stopped, eyes lighting up.

His fingers lingered on the metal, greed flickering in his eyes.

I knew what was coming next.

He stroked the watch, voice suddenly gentle. “Ah, you’re Mason’s classmate, right? Come, sit down, let me pour you some water.”

He switched gears so fast it made my head spin.

I gritted my teeth, playing along.

He grabbed my hand, not letting go, and barked at Mason, “Aren’t you going to get your classmate some water? Damn it, you never told me you had such a rich friend.”

He squeezed my wrist hard enough to leave a mark. Mason’s face went pale, fists clenched at his sides.

Mason had been enduring his dad quietly, letting him do whatever he wanted. But now, seeing his dad holding my hand, he clenched his own so hard his knuckles went white. A teenager’s pride, stomped into the ground by his own father.

I saw the shame in his eyes, the way he looked at the floor.

I wanted to scream at his dad for making him feel that way.

Mason didn’t fetch water. Instead, he stepped forward. His expression was so dark, I was afraid he’d start a fight right there. I wasn’t worried about his dad, but if Mason didn’t get his wound treated soon, he’d get sick from being drenched.

I stepped between them, trying to defuse the tension. The last thing we needed was a brawl.

I slipped off my watch and handed it to his dad. “If you like the watch, Mr. Reed, it’s yours—a gift.”

I forced a smile, hoping he’d take the bait and leave us alone. It was just a watch—Mason was worth more.

“Oh, I couldn’t… You’re such a good kid, so much better than my son.” He gripped the watch tightly.

He shoved it in his pocket, already thinking about how much he could get for it.

I felt sick.

“Give it back,” Mason said.

His voice was sharp, angry.

I squeezed his hand, trying to calm him down.

I held Mason’s hand down. “I said, give it back.”

I shot him a look, silently begging him to let it go. We needed to get through this first.

His dad snapped, “He gave it to me, so it’s mine. None of your business.”

He glared at Mason, daring him to argue.

I squeezed Mason’s hand harder.

Crap, I could barely hold him back.

Mason was shaking with rage. I could feel it in the way his muscles tensed beneath my fingers.

“Mr. Reed, the pawn shop on the corner of North Street gives the best prices for watches. You should check it out.”

I tried to sound helpful, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.

The sooner he was gone, the better.

His dad took the hint, saving his pride, and hurried out, closing the door behind him.

The door slammed shut, leaving us alone in the silence.

I let out a shaky breath.

Mason yanked his hand from mine and shook it off. I tried to help him, but he pushed me away.

He wouldn’t look at me, eyes dark with anger and shame. I wanted to hug him, but I knew he’d hate that.

“I’ll return your watch. Now, get out.”

His voice was cold, but I heard the pain beneath it. He sat on the couch, curling in on himself like a wounded animal.

He sat on the couch, trying to scare me off, but he just looked like a stray cat, abandoned and pitiful.

I wanted to wrap him in a blanket, tell him he was safe now.

Instead, I just sat beside him, close but not touching.

I took the tissue from his forehead and found the iodine in his room, gently cleaning his wound. He held still this time—maybe he knew I wouldn’t leave, no matter what.

He sat still, eyes closed, letting me care for him.

It felt like the smallest victory in the world.

Luckily, it was just a deep cut on his forehead, but it’d probably leave a scar.

I covered it with gauze.

I pressed the bandage down gently, hoping it wouldn’t hurt. I wanted to kiss it better, but I settled for a soft smile.

“Go change your clothes. Mr. Lewis will drive us to the hospital.”

I handed him a clean shirt from his closet, hoping he’d take the hint.

He nodded, moving slowly.

On the way, Mason was unusually quiet. After the doctor bandaged him up, we headed back to his place.

Everything felt too smooth, almost unreal.

I watched the rain streak down the car windows, wondering if this was what hope felt like.

For the first time, I thought maybe things could get better.