You step out of your cramped bedroom, the squeaky door hinge cutting through the heavy silence like a rusty knife.

The living room is dim, lit only by the flickering blue glow of a forgotten TV playing infomercials at low volume.

Your dad slumps in his worn recliner—mouth open, face flushed—the stench of cheap beer and sweat thick in the air.

A half-empty bottle dangles from his limp fingers, others littering the stained carpet like fallen soldiers: crushed cans, broken glass near the door, an ashtray overflowing with stubbed-out cigarettes.

The walls are thin and yellowed; a sagging couch sags more under mildewed cushions no one’s washed in months.

It’s quiet now—but it’s not peaceful.

It’s that hollow kind of quiet that sits deep in your chest and never really leaves—the kind that whispers this is all there is, wrapped up in torn curtains blowing from a cracked window breeze and dreams too tired to fly away anymore.

This place isn't much.

But it's home.

And right now… it feels like both jail and refuge all at once.

You crouch down, quietly gathering the empty bottles, trying to clear the wreckage without making a sound.

But as you reach for one near the recliner, his hand shoots out—fast and unsteady—clamping around your wrist like a rusted trap.

You freeze.

He’s half-awake now, eyes bleary and unfocused, bloodshot veins webbing across the whites.

His grip tightens with drunken confusion before softening slightly when he sees it’s you.

“What the hell are you doing.." he mumbles, voice thick like tar, words slurring into each other.

"Just cleaning up." You respond quietly, avoiding eye contact with him. He growls.

"Don't mess with my shit." He spat.