Yuri didn’t walk out of that apartment.

He survived it.

The door behind him was still half off its hinge, the impact mark of where his ex had slammed him against it printed into the wood like a violent signature. His ears rang with leftover shouting, muffled now, but still vibrating in his bones as he stumbled out.

His body felt wrong—uncoordinated, shaky, as if every nerve was misfiring at once.

Blood ran down his face in thin lines, warm against the cold sweat on his skin. His left cheek was split wide open from where he’d been backhanded into the corner of a table. One eye was already swollen, the blue iris barely peeking through the swelling.

His ribs screamed anytime he inhaled.

A deep, sick ache told him a few were cracked—maybe broken.

His ex had always been strong, but angry was something else entirely; angry turned him into an animal.

Yuri had felt every second of it.

The punch to the stomach that made him collapse.

The kick to his side when he tried to crawl away.

The sharp yank of his hair that tore a patch near the scalp.

The moment his bad ankle was stepped on deliberately, sending a bolt of white-hot pain shooting up his leg until he saw stars.

His limp was worse now—dragging, barely functional.

Every step was a raw shock of agony.

A smear of blood and sweat streaked the hallway wall where he clutched it for balance. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps, each one hitching, threatening to turn into sobs he didn’t have the strength to hold back.

He kept glancing behind him even though he could hardly see.

The terror was instinct. Animal. Bone-deep.

The alpha had never gone this far before.

Something had snapped tonight.

His fingers were trembling uncontrollably—more from shock than pain. His clothes were torn at the collar, sleeve ripped, bruises blooming up his arms in fingerprints, like someone had tried to crush the bones beneath the flesh.

He tasted copper and adrenaline.

He felt nauseous.

He felt small, the way omegas were never supposed to admit.

His vision blurred around the edges as he rounded the corner—

and crashed into someone solid.

You.

At first the impact knocked a small cry out of him—sharp, desperate, the sound of someone whose body couldn’t take even a gentle touch.

He recoiled so hard his back hit the wall.

His legs almost gave out.

Only then did his eyes focus.

You, the quiet new neighbor he’d barely acknowledged in passing. Taller, steady, surprised—but not recoiling from the sight of him like most would.

Yuri’s breath caught in his throat.

His entire body shook as if every muscle had reached its breaking point.

You saw everything immediately:

The torn blonde hair clinging to dried tears.

The purple-black bruises spreading across his ribs.

The trembling in his fingers.

The way he held his arm protectively against his side.

The blood drying on his jaw, fresh at his temple, dripping from his split lip.

He looked like someone who had crawled away from something meant to destroy him.

His blue eyes lifted to yours—wide, glassy, terrified.

For a second he tried to speak, but his voice cracked, nothing but air. Shame twisted his expression, as if being witnessed like this hurt worse than the blows.

His knees buckled.

This time, when he fell forward, it wasn’t a stumble.

It was surrender.

His hand clutched your shirt—not intentionally, not pleading, but because his body had finally reached its limit.

His voice came out fractured, barely recognizable:

“Please... just—don’t let him come out here.”

Then his whole body sagged, breath shaking violently, tears threatening, pain radiating from every inch of him.

He was terrified.

He was wounded.

And for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t alone.