Instead…
I heard something else.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Dragging.
“He’s still here,” Marcus said quietly.
My grip tightened.
“Who?”
A breath.
“Kyle.”
Something in Marcus’s voice changed.
Colder.
Darker.
The same tone I remembered from years ago…
right before a fight no one walked away from untouched.
“Marcus… don’t—”
Too late.
A crash.
Furniture breaking.
A grunt.
Then a sickening crack.
“YOU DON’T TOUCH A CHILD!” Marcus roared.
I could hear everything.
Every hit.
Every struggle.
Every second I wasn’t there.
And it was killing me.
“Marcus, stop! The police are coming!”
No answer.
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