**(GAVIN)**

As soon as I open the apartment door, I can see how nervous Donovan is. The last time I saw him, he wasn’t calm either, but it was different. At that time, my best friend showed clear signs of irritation and annoyance, exuding an aggressive aura that could be felt from miles away. Right now, however, all I see are his wide eyes filled with fear, not anger.

— Thank you for coming — I say, stepping aside to let him enter. Donovan silently thanks me and walks into the apartment.

I ask if he wants water or anything to drink, and his response is:

— Where is she?

— I’m here. — Amanda’s voice resonates through the room before I can say anything.

Seeing her, Donovan immediately goes to her. He kneels and gently runs his fingers over her cheek, furrowing his brows and scrutinizing every detail of the young woman.

— Are you okay? Are you hurt?

— I’m fine... — she responds softly, looking at me with an anguished expression. She’s asking me to take control of the situation, to explain what’s going on. And that’s what I do.

— Donovan. I think it’s best if the three of us go to Amanda’s room.

Donovan looks at me, then at the woman who has captured our hearts. He seems nervous and apprehensive, but swallows hard and nods, heading towards the room.

It’s always been rare for me to know something before Donovan. Throughout all this time, he was usually the one taking action, responsible for new information, blazing the trails, and guiding me. Now it’s me doing that, preparing to tell him something terrible that would affect him deeply. Was this how he felt when he came to me with sorrow on his face, ready to give me bad news? Did he also feel anguished while pondering the best approach and what he needed to do to contain me if my reaction was worse than expected?

If that’s the case, then he was much stronger than I imagined. I also needed to remember that Donovan didn’t do this only with me, but with many Urus employees; always dealing with them diplomatically, ethically, and firmly, never allowing any emotion, positive or negative, to take over the narrative. He was a true leader, and I admired him greatly for that. Now I had to play that role, be the bearer of the news and take the wheel. It was at least terrifying.

Once we were all inside, I close the door and the curtains. We would need total privacy now, as Amanda and I briefly decided on the balcony. She sits on the bed, quite dejected. Her fingers are intertwined, and although I feel bad for her discomfort, I want this truth to come out for him so we can discuss it. This was something too serious, too grave, and a joint decision had to be made regarding it.

— So? — Donovan keeps staring at Amanda, scrutinizing every detail that might reveal what this is about. The question was directed at me, though.

Feeling tears welling up in my eyes, I take two deep breaths and then look at the young woman, almost feeling ashamed and repulsed for asking her to do this... But it was necessary.

— Amanda.

Docile and obedient, Amanda turns her back, still sitting on the bed. She then starts unbuttoning her blouse.

Neither Donovan nor I say a word while she finishes the process. Once all the buttons are undone, she gathers her hair into a high bun. She then slowly removes her shirt. Amanda isn’t wearing a bra.

Seeing those terrible lines again, I have to hold myself back from breaking down in front of my friend. But unlike me, Donovan isn’t willing to pretend that this hasn’t hit him like a punch to the face.

— BUT WHAT THE—...

I quickly look at him, raising one hand and silently warning him not to shout, as it could destabilize her and then we’d really have problems. Donovan can barely understand what I’m trying to convey, as his eyes are fixed on Amanda’s scarred back. He stares, horror etched on his face, not only at the irregular lines cruelly marking the young woman’s skin but also at the strange circles marking her ribs.

His breathing is faltering, and I do nothing as he begins to walk towards Amanda. Trembling, his fingers start touching the scars. The silence in the room is oppressive and heavy. A thunderclap is heard outside, like a terrible omen.

Then I see it: Donovan’s back starts to shake uncontrollably. He’s crying. A lot.

I move to his side and place one hand on his shoulder, offering solidarity. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything more to ease his pain, and I’m the only one who knows for sure how demoralizing and destructive it is.

Amanda remains still, looking much like she did during the massage. I hope her mind is intact, that she’s not on the brink of breaking down or losing it. Then I say very quietly:

— I didn’t know about this until today, Donovan. But as soon as I saw it... I decided I should show you.

He continues crying, touching every irregular depression on the young woman’s back. I continue:

— She was brutally whipped. But I don’t know who did it, or when.

Donovan’s hatred is present in every expression on his face, as well as in his unusual loud crying. It’s a horrible scene to see someone who always had total control of his emotions succumbing to pain, but I don’t judge him even once. Any human with a shred of empathy would have the same reaction. And despite all the reservations, Donovan was far from being a robot.

I let him cry as much as he needs. Amanda also remains unmoved or says nothing. She doesn’t cry either, just keeps her head down and fiddles with her nails and fingertips. I truly hope her thoughts aren’t leading her into a downward and hellish spiral.

And I hope my best friend doesn’t succumb to his worst instincts either.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

**(DONOVAN)**

I’ve been to different places, different kinds of hell, and experienced various forms of agony and pain.

There are hardly any visible scars on my skin, but my soul is riddled with them. Pain was my companion for a considerable time, and although it left years ago, a closer examination would show that we were more than intimate. There are things that cannot be spoken without bringing an incredible amount of horror to all who hear them. Others need to be said at any cost, no matter how impactful they are. And this was one of those things.

What I was seeing, that mess of extremely irregular thick skin before my eyes, at the tips of my fingers...

The cruelty, sadism, and absolute malice and perversity of whoever was responsible for that was palpable in every detail of every coarse line marked on my little one’s back. I could see with terrifying and painful clarity how the wounds were made, where the whip had cracked.

My princess, my life... Being whipped like an animal. Over and over again.

The cry coming from my throat was so loud, so confused and difficult, that I realized even Gavin was affected. One of his hands remained on my shoulder, providing the necessary support, and then he said nothing more. Amanda remained still, and all I wanted was to hold her in my arms and comfort her. I wanted to caress her face, kiss her, tell her how deeply sorry I was that this happened to her... That I didn’t know anything, that it was impossible to know...

How did Gavin find out about this? Did she say something? Did he see her changing clothes with her back turned?

That didn’t matter, though. I was absolutely stunned. It was becoming harder to breathe, harder not to lose control completely seeing this. Then I notice other scars, small circles arranged on her ribs. There are many, maybe ten on each side, at least. I can’t understand how they were made, at least not at first. Amidst the crying and outrage, however, I realize what they are. I look at Gavin.

— Her ribs — is all I can say, my throat in tatters.

— I know — he murmurs. — Or rather, I don’t know. I tried to understand what they are, but I couldn’t.

Strangely, since seeing Amanda’s destroyed back, Gavin started speaking to me in English. I think it’s to keep Amanda calmer, not having to deal with my shock or the difficult conversation that would follow. However, part of me knows that she understands what we’re saying, that she’s quite intelligent and comprehends our language.

I wasn’t a fool or naïve. Since childhood, I understood that this world is full of misfortune, wickedness, and injustices. That you rarely see the hero coming out on top, prospering and receiving credit for their effort and goodness. No, it was actually the bad, scheming, and deceitful people who reached the top. Their machinations, traps, and false speeches bought followers, allies, and power; and because of this, they managed to be in the spotlight, practically revered by others who barely knew what went on behind the scenes. And when they did, as they say here in Brazil, they covered it up.

I wasn’t okay with this and never would be. But it was obvious that lately I had become numb, perhaps from living in a bureaucratic world full of falseness and shielding myself against it. Here and now, seeing the bright light of my life being one of the greatest victims of whoever was responsible for this, I felt the impact twice as hard as it was possible. Evil existed in the world, and I didn’t care about it as much... Until seeing that not only Amanda, but many others were

victims of atrocities like these and didn’t have the option of simply ignoring it.

No, they threw themselves off cliffs. They put a rope around their necks. They cut their own arms and legs with any sharp object—anything to make the trauma go away, even at unimaginable costs.

Gasping and blind with rage, I say quietly, still in English.

— They’re burns.

Gavin looks at me with wide eyes.

— And they’re not just ordinary burns — I murmur. My crying is now replaced by another, something more silent but just as painful. — They’re cigarette burns.

I see Gavin’s lips quivering as he examines the small circles, horrible and demonic like the rest of Amanda’s scars.

— My God... — he murmurs. Tears are flowing freely down his face.

Together, we stare at the skin of the woman who was here, alive and willing to continue in this state, as well as give us the gift that was her simple existence.

And I’m sure that, in that moment, both of us had the same thought.

Hunt down the bastard, or bastards, who did this. And return each inflicted harm threefold.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

**(AMANDA)**

The first time I saw Donovan cry was a long time ago. He was in the hospital after I tried to drown myself in Gavin’s bathtub, and I placed my hand over my chest and lowered my head in a silent apology. I wanted to tell him, without any words as I still didn’t have a voice, that I was very sorry for that; for causing them all that trouble for nothing, as I was determined to kill myself anyway, and even that hospitalization or rescue that might come in the future would be useless.

But the cry I heard from Donovan’s lips now was a terrible, torn, and desperate sound, very similar to Gavin’s from hours ago. I had already exhausted all the tears within me, so I didn’t cry along. But I felt horrible hearing it, it was agonizing to see him suffering like that... And it was impossible not to feel bad, even guilty, knowing that I wasn’t at fault for any of it.

Then he and Gavin began speaking to each other in English. I think they were speaking in their native language because they were together, facing something terrible for both. Although I’m not fluent, I could understand most of what they were saying.

Then I hear Donovan say he knows what the round scars on the sides of my back are. My breath catches when he spells it out.

I hear Gavin’s gasp right after, as well as his disbelief. Then silence. They’re probably crying again and trying to process the new information.

I knew that at some point I would have to tell them about this incident, who did this to me. But I just couldn’t imagine doing it. It would be so complicated and difficult, more difficult than this, actually.

I know they were both filled with rage, eager to hunt down the bastard who hurt me this way. But just imagining them being harmed, becoming the target of that man... I shudder just thinking about it.

My heart is racing faster and faster. Gavin and Donovan are still talking, but this time in whispers. From what I can “catch,” they’re trying to understand if the same person responsible for the whippings is the one who burned me with the cigarettes. And then wondering if it happened on the same day or if they were separate events.

Exhausted and very tired, I retrieve my blouse and begin to dress. I button the buttons one by one, trying to overcome the irritating and persistent tremor in my hands. When I finally turn to look at them, I see their swollen faces and eyes. Gavin has a noticeable red stripe crossing from one cheek to the other, right through the middle of his nose.

They don’t say anything. I also don’t know how to break this awful silence.

I want to make them well. I want to see them happy, not depressed because of me. The last few months have been extremely important to me, to my life and recovery. If it weren’t for them, for the care, dedication, and affection they both offered me, I wouldn’t be here. Even though this was a sad moment, it was preferable to going underwater, to who knows how many levels below the sea.

Then they slowly approach me, sitting on either side of the bed.

And together, they take each of my hands. Their bright eyes hardly blink.