At eight, Arin was taken in by an uncle who promised to "raise him like a son." What the man meant was different.
The uncle fed him scraps, worked him until his fingers bled, and on nights when the wine ran too deep, he dragged Arin into the dark room. The smell of sweat, the sound of the door locking, the unbearable weight of hands on skin—these became Arin's lessons in trust.
He never spoke of it. Who would listen? Who would believe a boy with hollow cheeks and dirt under his nails?
One evening, when he was too weak to resist, Arin bit down so hard on his own tongue that blood filled his mouth. He thought: Better to choke on myself than give him all of me.
He survived, but something inside him cracked forever.