Chapter 6: Covered in Scars

“Mrs. Quixall!” Cries of alarm filled the air. Startled, Caleb spun around to see Deborah kneeling. He rushed to help her up, but she refused, gripping his arm. “If you insist on leaving us, I will stay kneeling here!”

Caleb exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Mrs. Quixall, please, get up first.”

After a pause, he said, “All right. I won’t leave the Quixall family.” Only then did Deborah’s expression soften. She rose, taking his hand as if nothing had happened. “Good boy. Let Agnes take you to your room so you can freshen up.”

Caleb followed Agnes upstairs. His body moved on autopilot, his instinct guiding him toward his old room, only to be stopped. “Mr. Caleb, your room is this way,” Agnes gestured toward a smaller room in the far-right corner. If Caleb remembered correctly, this had once been a storage space. The lighting was poor, with a single north-facing window that never saw sunlight. A wave of musty air, thick with the scent of neglect, greeted him as the door swung open.

He lingered at the threshold, recalling Deborah's desperate pleas for him to stay. How ironic. And here I thought she genuinely couldn’t bear to part with me. The small, cramped bathroom quickly filled with steam, fogging the mirror and blurring both his reflection and the scars marring his skin. He knew Deborah was drowning in guilt now. In a month or two, when he mentioned leaving again, they would likely be the ones holding the door open for him.

After washing, Caleb noticed the loungewear Agnes had laid out. He picked it up, unfolded it, and paused. It unsettlingly resembled his prison uniform. Only Jesse could be capable of such calculated pettiness.

He slipped the shirt over his head, but the coarse fabric immediately irritated his wounds, both fresh and old. Frowning, he ran his fingers along the inner lining, discovering countless stiff, glittering fibers—clearly deliberate. Jesse is so… petty.

He stepped to the door and called out, “Agnes, could you bring me another set of clothes?” Before Agnes could respond, Yelena’s impatient voice cut in. “This was specially prepared for you by Jesse. You just had to go against us, huh?”

Caleb opened his mouth to explain, “This outfit—”

“Yelena, if Caleb doesn’t want to wear it, let’s not force him,” Jesse interjected, his seemingly considerate remark only fueling Yelena’s rage. She slammed the table, her voice sharp with contempt. “What exactly are you dissatisfied with? Isn’t it enough that the Quixall family is still willing to accept you? Either wear what’s given to you, or don’t wear anything at all!”

With no other choice, Caleb descended the stairs in his uncomfortable attire. The Quixalls were already seated. Deborah, ever the doting mother in public, patted the seat beside her, urging him to sit. As he sat, her gaze dropped to the exposed skin at his sleeve. A faint reddish hue caught her eye. Her brows furrowed in concern. “What happened to your hand?”

Caleb replied indifferently, “Oh, it’s chafed by the shirt.”

“The shirt?” Before Deborah could react, Yelena scoffed, arms crossed. “Stop making things up. Do you think you can fool Mom and gain her sympathy?”

Yelena, already simmering, exploded when Caleb continued to defy her. With a sharp clang, she slammed her fork down, storming over to him. “I’d like to see if it’s really the shirt.” With a violent tug, she ripped the shirt open, exposing Caleb’s scarred skin—some raw, others with faint traces of blood, remnants of his cellmates' “farewell gifts.”

“Oh my gosh…” Deborah and the housekeepers quickly averted their gazes. Yelena’s hand froze, and she muttered, “How could this be?”