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Suddenly, he's in an alley at school again.

"Hey dipshit, where's daddy now?"

"Go away."

"Where are your bodyguards, Tony? What, can't find them?"

Half a dozen guys surround me, jeering.

"You know you're not going to win this, Tony."

"Might as well just take it like a man. I mean, it's the closest you'll ever get to being one."

"Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

I lunge at one dude, grateful my dad had made me take that self-defence class and cursing myself for not paying any attention.

Blows land on my stomach and back, tossing me around.

They won't get another chance to jump me like this.

They won't know when to stop.

I'm gonna be in the hospital after this.

Dad's gonna kill me.

I deserve this.

I close my eyes and let them take me, feeling kicks to the backs of my knees that bring me to the ground. I could have yelled for help. I could have tried.

Feet at my ribs and my back, and a heeled boot presses down on my thigh. I grimace and turn on my back, chuckling.

"I thought heels were gay, Josh?"

The guy sneers at me, and my remark earns me a kick to the shins.

I barely choke back a scream as the same heeled boot lands on my sternum and stomps, the cartilage snapping and my ribs popping off. I let them keep it up, the panic button in my pocket weighing heavy. I try to shift my weight, hoping it won't be pressed accidentally but soon it's too much, it's too much and I can't stop it. I can't stop them. I'm not in control. I grasp desperately for the little device, realising with every move that my hand is probably broken. Through some miracle, I manage to pull it out and hold the little red button down just long enough to hear a beep from it. My throat fills with blood and the torment ceases. They must have seen the little button and run off, because it's cold now and there's no new pain. Just a dull throbbing sensation all over, and I can't breathe, and there are black things in my eyes, and I can't-

"-breathe, I can't breathe," he sobs, clutching his chest and desperately grabbing at his ribs, like he's trying to reconnect them to his sternum.

He can feel them kicking him, can feel his father's belt on his back and the mechanical pencils digging into his stomach underneath him, he can feel hands on his face-

but it's Bruce. Thank god it's Bruce.

I trust Bruce, he thinks.

I love Bruce, he thinks.

But he loved his father, he loved that straight guy in high school, he loved Obadiah and all of them had hurt them.

Bruce could hurt him, if he wanted. He could do it easily. But what kind of hurt? The kind of hurt he felt in the alley next to the school? The kind of hurt he felt from the general that Thursday night in the wine cellar? Or was it the kind of pain that Obadiah inflicted, the pain he recreated time again?

"Please don't hurt me," he murmurs pathetically.

"Oh baby, no one's gonna hurt you."

He cradles Tony's head and holds him tight on the dirty bathroom floor.