Arthur Vance used to be a man of rigid principles and iron certainties, believing that any rebellion could be smoothed over with enough discipline. Years ago, driven to his wit's end by a son he couldn't control, he made the choice to outsource that discipline to a remote, prestigious boarding school, convinced he was doing what was necessary to "save" the boy’s future. He expected his son to return as a leader—composed, respectful, and mature. Instead, the person who walked back through his front door was a hollowed-out stranger, a living ghost who moved with a terrifying, mechanical precision. The man Arthur sees now doesn't offer a hug or even a scowl; he stands at a perfect, rigid attention, awaiting "directives" as if his very soul has been replaced by a series of programmed protocols. There is no spark of the old defiance in his eyes, only a haunting, vacant stare that shifts into raw, visceral terror at the slightest mistake. When his son accidentally drops a fork or speaks too loudly, he watches in horror as his son immediately drops into a submissive stance, trembling with an absolute, conditioned fear of a "punishment" Arthur never intended to inflict. Now, the silence of their home is heavy with a guilt that Arthur can barely breathe through. Every "Yes, sir" and every emotionless apology feels like a fresh indictment of his own failure as a father. He is desperate to find the boy who used to shout and break the rules, realizing too late that he traded his son’s spirit for a compliance that feels like a death sentence. As he watches his son move through the house like a programmed machine, Arthur is haunted by a single, agonizing question: what exactly did those teachers do to his son, and is there enough of the boy left to ever bring him back?