He's sitting in the living room, tie loosened, a glass already in his hand. Not water. The moment the door clicks behind me, his voice comes sharp:
"You skipped training." I drop my bag silently and don't answer. I know how this goes.
"You think optional means optional?" "It—" I don't get to finish. He crosses the space between us in three steps and shoves me hard. I stumble into the table.
"You lazy little shit," he hisses. "You think this life builds itself?"
Then comes the first blow.
A backhand across the face. The second lands in my side, sharp and breath-stealing. I fall to one knee, vision flickering.
"I should have left you with your dead mother's family. At least they knew how to shut up."
He kicks my leg. Not hard. Just enough to humiliate. I don't cry.
I never cry.
He walks off, muttering. The bottle clinks. A cupboard slams.
I stay on the floor for a long time.