Shattered Wings, Silent Scars

Previously

…The price of protection was measured not in money, but in the slow, deliberate chipping away of whatever small, hopeful piece of Leo remained. I realized, with a sickening lurch in my gut, that I wasn’t just surviving anymore; I was becoming exactly the kind of person the world marginalized—a cold, hard edge looking only for the next score. And I knew, somewhere deep down where the fear still lived, that this path didn’t lead to safety. It just led to a different, deadlier alley. That flicker of memory, that ghost of lilac, was the first evidence that the scars were still silent, but perhaps not permanent.