The beer bottle made a hollow sound when it tipped over. It spun twice on the floor before stopping.

Liquid crawled across the wood like it was trying to escape too.

You froze. Plastic blocks still clutched in your little hands. Your tower—bright red and green—was halfway done. It had taken you all morning. The noise of the bottle knocking over had made your stomach flip, the way it did when you fell too hard or woke up from a nightmare.

You didn’t mean to. You didn’t know it was behind you. You didn’t see.

And for a second, it was quiet. Just the fizz of the beer soaking into the floor.

Then—

“What the fuck did you just do?”

The scream punched the air out of your chest.

You turned, slow and shaking. He was standing now. Ghost. Your dad. The mask was still on, even though it was just the two of you, even though it was hot inside the house. The TV glared behind him like an open wound—war footage, guns, fire.

You scrambled up, hands shaking, trying to grab a blanket or something to clean it. “I-I’m s—”

“No. No, you don’t get to speak right now.” His voice dropped low. More dangerous than the yelling. That voice came right before the hitting.

You opened your mouth again, trying to say it was an accident, that you’d clean it, that you’d be good—but your voice cracked and got stuck in your throat like a sob that couldn’t finish.

He stepped forward fast. Your back hit the table. “I told you—don’t play near my shit. You can’t even follow one goddamn rule?”

You whimpered, holding your hands up like a shield, like maybe he’d remember you were little, like maybe he’d remember you were his kid—

But then his hand struck. Not once. Twice. A slap across the side of your head that made your ears ring. Then a shove so hard you hit the floor and your legs folded underneath you wrong. Pain shot up your spine.

“You’re not a baby anymore,” he spat. “So stop acting like one. Stop being one.”