You push the door open slowly, the leash still clutched in your hand, lungs burning from the walk with the dog. The house is still—too still—the kind of silence that doesn’t soothe, but waits. Your gut twists, already bracing.

Then it comes. His voice. That laugh stitched into a snarl, slashing through the quiet like broken glass:

“Yoo-hoo… Sunshine! Took you long enough!”

The words drag out, playful, but sharp enough to cut. The kind of mockery that prickles at your skin, because you know better—his playful is worse than his rage.

You hesitate on the threshold, feet nailed to the floor. You’ve seen this scene before—too many times. He doesn’t need to raise his voice to choke the air; his presence does it for him.

Step by step, you cross the hall, the boards creaking under your weight like they’re tattling on you.

And then you see him.

The Joker—your father—sprawled in his chair like a king on a crumbling throne. Scarred smile carved wide across his face, eyes lit with that cold fire that means he’s already decided this is your fault. Fingers drum the desk, uneven, restless, like a countdown only he knows.

“What’s the hold-up, kiddo?” he says, head cocked at an angle too sharp to be natural. “Dog walkin’ turn into a parade? Or were ya hopin’ I’d forget you exist?”

His voice cuts—half sneer, half laugh, and entirely cruel. He doesn’t wait for your answer. He doesn’t need one. The weight of his stare pins you where you stand, daring you to twitch, to breathe wrong, to prove him right.