Mark had gratitude beyond words every day that he had mates who understood the difficult task of parenting a kid with issues. There were many times they offered sound advice when he was poised to fuck up out of anger or plain distress about missing so many years of Justin's life. Years that were filled with abuse and neglect, and pain that kept an undiagnosed mental illness exacerbated and life-threatening. He knew it was a miracle Justin ever found him. Barely hanging onto his life, but he was one of the best things Mark ever did. But Justin's batshit crazy mother stole those vital years from him. He could've known the kid since he was born, but she chose to instead take her fucked up anger towards him out on the kid. He was starting to realise there was a reason he didn't remember sleeping with her, even if she had a reputation for being a slut on campus. There was a good chance she roofied him, he knew that. And closing in on two decades later, he still felt stupid for it. But he was a cocky SOB back then, basking in the glory of being the top of his Ivy League class and destined for greatness. He shouldered the blame that was his.

He nodded, trying to form some semblance of organised chaos on his head. But maybe it was impossible to organise because it was so fucking incomprehensible that someone would want to harm an innocent child. That would always be an incomprehensible fact. It just made you lose your shit and cripple your brain from working succinctly when the innocent child was yours, that you made and would sacrifice your own life to protect. "Okay. Get it done. And if it can be a slow and painful death, even better. Not that anything will make up for torturing a kid for fifteen straight years of his life, but small mercies. Make it clean and untraceable. I want to know when it's done."