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The London sky was a bruised purple, the kind of heavy, humid evening that made the air feel thick in Ty’s lungs. He’d lived in the city long enough to know its rhythms, but today, he’d made a tactical error. He was tired, his legs ached from a long day, and the shortcut through the narrow alleyway behind the high street had seemed like a mercy.

It wasn't.

"Well, well. Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence," a voice drawled.

Ty froze. He knew that voice. It belonged to Max—sharp, grating, and perpetually tinged with a malice that Ty had spent the last year trying to forget. He looked up and saw three figures detaching themselves from the shadows of a brick wall. Max stood in the center, flanked by George and Steve.

A year ago, Ty would have greeted them with a grin and a reckless joke. Now, his stomach dropped into his shoes. He’d spent months ignoring their texts, blocking their numbers, and crossing the street to avoid them. He thought he’d made it out.

"I’m just going home, Max," Ty said, his voice steadier than he felt. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, his knuckles white against the fabric.

"Going home? Without saying hello to your old mates?" George stepped closer, a sneer curling his lip. "You’ve been busy, Ty. Too busy for us? Or is it that you’re too famous for us now? Too much of a little star?"

"It’s not like that," Ty said, trying to step around them. "I just don't want to associate with you guys anymore. I told you. We’re done."

He tried to push past, but Steve, the largest of the three, stepped into his path. Before Ty could react, Steve’s hand shot out, bunching the fabric of Ty’s white T-shirt into a fist and slamming him back against the cold brick wall. The impact knocked the wind out of Ty, leaving him gasping.

"You don't just decide when we're done," Steve hissed, his face inches from Ty’s. "You think you’re better than us? Because of who your dad is? Because you live in a big house?"

"I never said that," Ty wheezed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Let go of me."

"Or what?" Max laughed, stepping into Ty’s personal space. "You going to call the police? Going to run to Mummy?"

Ty felt a flicker of the old fire he’d inherited from both his parents—a stubborn streak that didn't know when to stay quiet. He looked Steve dead in the eye, his jaw tightening.

"I said leave me the hell alone," Ty snapped, his voice ringing with a boldness he immediately regretted.

The response was instantaneous. Steve didn't argue; he simply drew back his fist and drove it into Ty’s cheekbone.

The world exploded into a kaleidoscope of white light and sharp pain. Ty’s head snapped back against the wall, and before he could recover, another blow caught him in the stomach. He slumped to the ground, the rough pavement scraping his palms. He tried to curl into a ball, to protect his ribs, but the kicks came fast and heavy.

One caught him in the shoulder; another grazed his temple. He could hear the thud of sneakers against his body, the muffled grunts of his attackers, and the distant, mocking sound of Max’s laughter.

"Not so posh now, are you?" Max’s voice seemed to come from underwater.

Then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped.

"Come on, let’s go before someone sees," Max muttered.

Ty stayed curled on the ground, his eyes squeezed shut, listening to the retreating rhythm of their footsteps. For a long time, the only sound was his own ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic from the main road.

Eventually, he forced himself to move. Every joint screamed in protest. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the darkening sky. He could feel something warm and sticky trickling down his forehead and over his lip. He reached up, his fingers trembling, and touched his face. When he pulled his hand away, it was stained a deep, visceral red.

"Damn it," he whispered, his voice cracking.

He managed to sit up, leaning his back against the wall that had been his silent witness. He took a deep breath, which resulted in a sharp stab of pain in his side. He sat there for several minutes, waiting for the world to stop spinning. He couldn't go to a hospital—there would be questions, paperwork, and eventually, his parents would find out the truth.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen was cracked, but it still flickered to life. With shaking thumbs, he opened a ride-sharing app and summoned a taxi to the end of the alley.

While he waited, he used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the worst of the blood from his face. It was a futile gesture; the white fabric was already ruined, smeared with crimson streaks that looked like a macabre abstract painting. He pulled his hoodie up, tucking his chin into the collar to hide his neck.

The taxi ride was a blur of neon lights and nausea. Ty kept his head down, staring at his shoes, praying the driver wouldn't look in the rearview mirror. When the car finally pulled up to the gated driveway of his home, he paid quickly and stumbled out.

The house loomed large and welcoming, its windows glowing with a warm, golden light. Usually, this was his sanctuary. Tonight, it felt like a gauntlet.

He unlocked the front door as quietly as he could, his movements stiff and awkward. He just needed to get to the stairs. If he could get to his bathroom, he could clean the blood, find a fresh shirt, and hide the bruises under a bit of concealer he’d swiped from a film set months ago.

He stepped into the foyer, his sneakers silent on the hardwood. He made it three steps toward the staircase before a voice drifted from the living room.

"Ty? Is that you, darling?"

It was Georgia. Ty closed his eyes, a silent curse dying on his lips.

"Yeah, Mum," he called back, trying to keep his voice casual. "Just heading up to bed. Had a long day."

"Without saying goodnight?" David’s voice joined hers, light and teasing. "Come in here for a second, we haven't seen you since breakfast."

Ty froze. He looked at the stairs, then at the arched doorway to the living room. He could try to run for it, but that would only make them more suspicious. He took a shaky breath, pulled his hoodie strings tighter to hide his jawline, and walked into the room.

The living room was cozy, the television humming at a low volume. David was sprawled on the sofa with a script in his lap, and Georgia was curled up at the other end, a glass of wine on the coffee table.

"There he is," David said, looking up with a smile that vanished the moment his eyes landed on his son.

Ty tried to stay in the shadows of the doorway, but Georgia was already standing up.

"Ty? Why have you got your hood up? It's boiling in here," she said, stepping toward him.

"I’m just a bit chilled, honestly," Ty said, backing away slightly. "I think I’m coming down with something. I’m just going to go sleep it off."

"Ty, look at me," Georgia said, her voice dropping into that tone—the one that meant she wasn't asking.

She reached out and gently pulled the hood back. The gasp that escaped her throat was sharp enough to cut the air.

David was on his feet in an instant, the script fluttering to the floor. "Oh, God. Ty?"

The light from the chandelier hit Ty’s face, revealing the damage in brutal detail. His left eye was swelling shut, a deep purple bruise blooming across his cheek. His eyebrow was split open, the blood having dried in a dark crust, and his bottom lip was puffed and torn.

"What happened?" David asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of shock and burgeoning fury. He reached out, his hands hovering near Ty’s face as if he was afraid to touch him and cause more pain.

"I fell," Ty said quickly, the lie tasting like copper in his mouth. "I was running for the bus, and I tripped. Hit the curb. It looks worse than it is."

"Ty, don't," Georgia said, her eyes shimmering with tears. "You didn't fall. Look at your shirt. Look at your hands."

She took his hand, turning it over to show the bruised knuckles and the scrapes that didn't match a simple trip and fall.

"I just... I tripped," Ty insisted, his voice rising. He felt a hot flush of shame. He was seventeen. He was supposed to be able to handle himself. He didn't want them to know he’d been hunted down like a dog by boys he used to call friends. He didn't want to be the victim.

"Sit down," David said, his voice firm but infinitely gentle. He guided Ty to the armchair, his hand steady on Ty’s shoulder. "Georgia, get the first aid kit. And some ice."

Georgia hurried out of the room, her footsteps frantic.

David knelt on the floor in front of Ty, searching his son’s face. "Ty, look at me. Did someone do this to you?"

"I told you, Dad, I fell," Ty muttered, looking at his knees.

"You’re a terrible liar," David whispered. "You always have been. You’ve got too much of your mother’s spirit for that."

Georgia returned with a plastic basin of warm water, a stack of clean cloths, and the familiar red first aid box. She sat on the edge of the chair, her face a mask of maternal focus, though her hands shook slightly as she dipped a cloth into the water.

"This is going to sting, love," she murmured.

As she pressed the damp cloth to his eyebrow, Ty winced, his eyes watering involuntarily.

"Sorry, sorry," she whispered, leaning in to kiss his forehead, careful to avoid the injuries.

David watched them, his brow furrowed. "Was it those boys, Ty? The ones from last year? Max and his lot?"

Ty stiffened. He didn't answer, which was an answer in itself.

"I thought you stopped seeing them," David said, his voice hardening. "I thought you were clear of that."

"I was," Ty snapped, then immediately softened. "I am. I haven't talked to them in months. I took a shortcut tonight. They were just... there."

"They jumped you?" Georgia asked, her voice tight with anger as she cleaned the blood from his lip.

"It doesn't matter," Ty said, closing his eyes. "I’m fine. I just want to forget it happened."

"It matters a great deal," David said. He stood up, pacing the small space in front of the chair. "They can't just do this. We need to call the police, Ty. We need to report this."

"No!" Ty’s eyes snapped open. "No police. Please."

"Ty, they assaulted you," Georgia said softly.

"I know! I know that!" Ty felt the frustration bubbling over. "But if you call the police, it becomes a thing. It’ll be in the papers. 'David Tennant’s son in street brawl.' I can't have that. And I don't want to be a snitch. It’s humiliating enough as it is."

David stopped pacing and looked at his son. He saw the pride, the fear, and the desperate need for autonomy. He sighed, the anger leaving him and being replaced by a profound sadness. He sat back down on the edge of the coffee table.

"It’s not humiliating to be a victim of a coward’s attack, Ty," David said. "There were three of them, weren't there?"

Ty nodded slowly.

"Then there is no shame in this," David continued. "But we won't call the police tonight if you really don't want to. But you have to let us take care of you. No more lies."

Georgia finished cleaning the cuts and applied a thin strip of surgical tape to his eyebrow. She moved to the kitchen and returned with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel, gently pressing it to Ty’s cheek.

"You’re going to have a hell of a shiner tomorrow," she said, trying to lighten the mood, though her voice still wobbled.

"I’ll just tell people I’m method acting," Ty joked weakly.

David reached out and squeezed Ty’s knee. "We love you, you know. No matter what. You don't have to hide things from us. Especially not this."

Ty looked at his parents—the two people who had always been his fiercest protectors. The shame that had been weighing him down since the alleyway began to lift, just a little. He wasn't the boy who got beaten up in an alley anymore; he was a son being cared for by his family.

"I know," Ty said quietly. "Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mum."

"Come on," Georgia said, helping him stand up. "Let’s get you into some clean pajamas and into bed. I’ll bring you some ibuprofen."

As Ty leaned on his mother, heading toward the stairs, David followed closely behind. The house was quiet again, the golden light still warm, but the shadows of the evening had been chased away by the steady, unwavering glow of home. Ty still hurt, and the bruises would stay for weeks, but as he climbed the stairs, he knew he didn't have to carry the weight of the shortcut alone.