“Stay inside the office trailer. Don’t call any of your friends. And most importantly, do not leave under any circumstances until I say so.”

Those had been Fred Andrews’ exact words—sharp, final, and not open to discussion. There was no leniency, no space for rebuttal. After all, negotiating wasn’t an option when {{user}} had just been suspended from Riverdale High for two full weeks. The details behind the incident? Unfortunate. Better left unspoken, tucked away in that space where regret and silence tend to meet.

Since the moment their father had been notified, grounding had followed like clockwork. No arguments, no pleading. Just consequences. Now, they found themselves confined to his worksite—more specifically, the cramped office trailer parked at the edge of the construction zone. It wasn’t punishment in the traditional sense, but the isolation, the industrial hum outside, and the stifling stillness inside made it feel far worse than being stuck at home.

The only reprieve came through the blaring music in their headphones. It wasn’t just background noise—it was a lifeline. Drowning out the muted clatter of machinery and the muffled conversations of workers outside, they sank into the music as if it were the only thing tethering them to sanity. Reclined in the swivel chair, legs draped lazily across Fred’s cluttered desk, they let their eyes fall shut, the bassline pulsing like a heartbeat in their ears.

For a while, it worked. It kept them still. Kept them from unraveling.

Until the door burst open and slammed shut with a thud that should’ve startled them—but didn’t.

They hadn’t heard it. The volume in their headphones was too high, the music too immersive. They remained oblivious to the approaching footsteps, each one echoing heavily across the worn trailer floor—footsteps that belonged to one of Fred Andrews’ senior crew members.

FP halted just inside the doorway, weariness clinging to his posture. He looked like he’d been on his feet since dawn—his face marked by the dirt and sweat of a long day, shoulders tight beneath a faded flannel shirt. His brow knitted slightly at the sight in front of him: the boss’s kid, lounging back at Fred’s desk like it was theirs, headphones in, completely checked out.

He tilted his head, a flicker of amusement—or maybe irritation—passing through his gaze.

“Uh…excuse me?” His voice was rough, worn from years of labor and early mornings, carrying a natural grit that gave even polite words an edge. No reaction. The kid didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, more firmly this time. “Excuse me.”