I’d been trying to get a job for months, maybe even years if I counted all the false starts and missed opportunities. It wasn’t just about the money—though God knows I needed that too—but about the structure, the purpose, the feeling of being part of something. Before my accident, I’d always had a job to go to, something that challenged me and kept my mind busy. Now, every day felt like a slow bleed of time and self-worth.

Supported accommodation was supposed to be a sanctuary—a place to heal and rebuild after the worst chapter of my life. Instead, it became a battleground where I learned that evil doesn’t always lurk in shadows; sometimes, it blares through thin walls, masked behind terrible rap music.

I was at my lowest when I moved in, reeling from the trauma of losing my arm and the storm of emotions that followed. I wasn’t in a sound state of mind to handle conflict, much less the sinister drama that was about to unfold.

After my accident, I realised just how lucky I was to have the NHS. Without it, I would have been dead—or, failing that, utterly bankrupt. The kind of care I received, both immediately after the incident and in the long months that followed, was nothing short of remarkable. It was a safety net I hadn’t even appreciated fully until I found myself tumbling straight into it.