Jace didn't go back to his apartment after leaving Soraya's.
The walls there would feel too close, too loud with thoughts he didn't want.
Instead, he took the subway to Brooklyn.
Home.
Or at least what passed for it.
The house was small, crooked like it had been punched in the jaw a few decades ago and never healed right.
Paint peeling. Fence half fallen.
Same as it had always been.
He didn't even get to the porch before the door swung open.
"Look who decided to visit," barked a voice he hadn't missed.
His father.
Rough hands. Rougher mouth. Half a bottle of whiskey living in his blood at any given time.
"Hey, Dad," Jace said, forcing a thin smile.
"Your mother's in the kitchen. Pretend you're a good son for five minutes, yeah?"
Jace bit back the words he wanted to say — the ones that would only start a fight — and walked inside.
The house smelled like old food and frustration.
The TV blared some angry talk show.
And his mother stood by the sink, wrists thin as twigs, humming tunelessly under her breath as she scrubbed the same plate over and over.
"Ma," he said softly.
She turned, eyes lighting up.
Jace had always been her favorite — maybe because he was the only thing that ever smiled in that house.
"You're too skinny," she said instead of hello, reaching up to cup his face. "Come eat something."
He sat at the kitchen table, letting her fuss over him.
Letting her pretend things were normal.
Maybe because for five minutes, he wanted to pretend too.
But it didn't last.
Across the room, his dad was watching him — smirking over the rim of a cheap beer.
"You still bartending like some kinda loser?" he called out.
Jace stiffened.
Ma pretended not to hear.
"Yeah, Dad," Jace said. "Still a bartender. Paying rent. Living my life."
"Living your life," his father mocked, raising the bottle. "At least your sister had the sense to marry someone rich. What're you doing? Getting your ass handed to you by some girl?"
Jace didn't answer.
He just stared down at the table, jaw tight, chest burning.
He couldn't tell them about Soraya
They wouldn't understand anyway.
Hell, he barely understood it himself.
But part of him knew — standing there in that sad little kitchen, hearing the TV scream in the background — that the reason Soraya's cruelty cut so deep was because it was a wound he already carried.
He was born bleeding.