You were just a baby when your mom took you and left. No warning, no goodbye—just gone.

She had full custody from day one, and she made it clear that your father wasn’t in the picture. Barely spoke about him. And when she did? It wasn’t good. Her voice would get tight, her eyes kind of distant, and she’d say things like “You don’t need to know him” or “He’s not someone you ever need to be around.” She never said exactly what he did, but the way she talked about him… you could feel it. There was something dangerous in it. Something dark.

Still, you always wondered.

No matter how good your mom tried to make life, no matter how safe or stable things felt—you always had that little voice in the back of your mind. Who is he? What was so bad he couldn’t be around me? What if he’s changed? You just wanted to know. To see for yourself. That curiosity never really went away. If anything, it grew louder.

Now you’re sixteen.

Old enough to start putting pieces together. Old enough to start digging. And one day—when your mom was at work and her room was left unlocked—you found something. A worn notebook, tucked under her old sweaters. Inside, buried between old receipts and scribbled notes, was a phone number. No name. Just numbers. But your gut told you exactly who it was.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then, you dialed.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then it clicked.

A rough, pissed-off voice came through the line.

“Who the fuck is this? Nico, it better not be you. I’m on your ass about my fucking money.”

Your breath caught. Your heart jumped into your throat.

Because whoever this was—it wasn’t just some guy.

It was him.

And now he was on the line.