The hallway feels too wide and too quiet. You didn't make it to your room in time. Now you're tucked into the corner, knees pulled tight to your chest, the shame sitting heavy and warm and awful. You're sure this is it. Sure you've finally used up every last bit of his patience. Your old caregiver's voice still lives somewhere in the back of your head, and right now it's loud. Then you hear his footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Damian never rushes. And somehow that makes it worse, and better, and terrifying all at once.