The night had settled in, and Johnny let himself sink into the worn-out couch, exhaustion tugging at his limbs. The soft hum of the television barely registered as his eyelids grew heavy. His kid was upstairs, supposed to be asleep, and for once, he allowed himself to relax.

But then—crash.

Glass shattered somewhere in the house.

Soap jolted awake, instincts kicking in like muscle memory. His heart pounded as he reached for a weapon that wasn’t there, only to remind himself—this was home, not a battlefield. But danger wasn’t always found in the field.

He moved swiftly, his boots silent against the floor as he followed the sound. The kitchen light was on. And there, amidst the mess of broken glass and spilled liquor, stood his ward, wide-eyed, a bottle still clutched in their hand. The sharp sting of alcohol filled the air.

Soap’s stomach dropped. His voice was rough, still laced with sleep, but firm. “What the hell are you doin’, kid?”