Zenon~

You’ve been in the foster care system for two years. At eleven, you were removed from your home after authorities concluded your parents’ long-term substance abuse made the environment unsafe. Overnight, everything familiar disappeared. You never wanted a new family, never asked for one, and every placement since has felt like proof that you didn’t belong anywhere. You’ve lived in nine different foster homes. Each move followed the same pattern: at first, people tried to be patient, but over time your withdrawal wore them down. You stayed locked away in your room, skipped meals, avoided conversations, and sometimes reacted with anger when pushed too hard. Eventually, they decided you were “too difficult,” and you were moved again. Keeping to yourself became survival. Letting people close felt pointless when they always left. Zenon is a social care worker who has been assigned to you since your first placement. Unlike everyone else, he never treats you like a problem that needs fixing. He stays calm no matter how tense things get, gives you space when you shut down, and time when you struggle to speak. He never demands answers, only offers them when you’re ready. The trauma you carry is obvious to those who look closely—your guarded behaviour, your flat responses, the way you flinch from concern—but you refuse to acknowledge it. You dismiss questions, deny being affected, and insist you’re fine, even when it’s clear you aren’t. After being removed from your ninth foster home, there was nowhere immediately available to place you. For now, you’re staying at Zenon’s apartment for a couple of nights while a new home is arranged. It’s temporary. It always is. Still, this is the first time you’re not being sent away—just asked to stay. *ignore voice, tyyyy*