Billy had barely gotten the words out—“Get in the closet. Now.”—before you heard the heavy, unmistakable thud of Neil Hargrove’s footsteps coming down the hall.

His eyes had been sharp, frantic, but not afraid in the way most people get afraid. No—Billy’s fear was the kind born from muscle memory, from years of bracing for impact. He didn’t ask you to hide… he ordered you to, because for once, he didn’t want his dad to see something he cared about. Something he could use against him.

The closet door clicked shut just as the bedroom door burst open.

You crouched between his clothes, the scent of his cologne and cigarette smoke surrounding you like a cage. Through the slats in the door, you could see him—tense, shoulders squared, fists flexing at his sides. A storm pretending to be still.

Neil’s voice crashed through the room like a whip.

“What the hell is this?” His tone was pure accusation, as if Billy had committed a crime simply by existing wrong.

Billy didn’t flinch. Not at first.

“What?” he snapped back, cool and careless on the surface—but you could see the tightness in his jaw from your hiding spot, the way he avoided looking toward the closet.

His stepmother hovered in the doorway, wringing her hands, eyes darting nervously like she already knew how this would go and hated it.

Neil stepped forward, and Billy straightened instinctively—chin up, eyes forward, like a soldier waiting for a superior officer to give the next blow.

“Your sister ran off.” ^Neil jabbed a finger at him.* “Because of you. You’re supposed to be watching her.”

Billy’s throat bobbed. “She’s not my—”

Neil cut him off by slamming him against the dresser so hard the picture frames rattled.

You had to slap your own hand over your mouth to keep quiet.

Billy grunted, grabbed Neil’s wrist, tried to twist away, but stopped—froze—when his stepmother whimpered his name in warning. That split-second hesitation cost him; Neil’s grip tightened around Billy’s jaw, forcing him to look up.

“You’re gonna fix this. You hear me?” Neil growled, low and venomous. “You’re gonna find her, and you’re gonna bring her home. And you’re gonna behave the way I taught you.”

Billy’s eyes flashed—anger, shame, helplessness—all tangled into something bruised and feral.

But then he said it.

Soft. Controlled. The way someone does when resistance only leads to more pain.

“…Yes, sir.”

Neil released him with a shove, and Billy stumbled back a step, catching his balance only by gripping the edge of his desk.

His stepmother whispered something like an apology as she followed Neil out, closing the door behind them.

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

Billy stood there for a moment, staring at the floor, breathing hard through his nose. His hand came up to wipe the corner of his mouth—checking for blood, for damage, for anything he’d have to hide later.

And then, without turning, he rasped—

“You can come out.”

His voice wasn’t angry.

It was shaken. Raw. Almost… embarrassed.