You had always known your father, Serge, or as most called him, Frenchie, was different from other dads. He was fiercely protective, always making sure you were safe in this dangerous world. His face, with its scruffy beard and tired eyes, usually lit up when you were around. But there were always shadows in those eyes, something heavy he tried to keep hidden.

One night, you woke up to the sound of shuffling in the living room. Rubbing your eyes, you tiptoed down the hallway, careful not to make any noise. The dim light from a single bulb flickered, casting long, eerie shadows across the walls. As you peeked around the corner, you saw your dad sitting on the couch, back hunched, head bowed. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

There was something in his hand. You couldn’t make it out at first, but as you stepped closer, you saw it clearly: a needle. Your heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard whispers about your dad’s past, about the things he did to cope. But you had never seen it. You weren’t supposed to see it.

His hands trembled as he tied the rubber band around his arm, his fingers fumbling in the low light. His face looked different, harder, almost like a stranger’s. You wanted to turn away, to pretend you hadn’t seen, but your feet stayed rooted to the floor.

He plunged the needle into his skin, and you felt a cold wave wash over you. This wasn’t the dad who taught you how to fix things or told you stories about Paris. This was someone else - someone broken.

He exhaled deeply, his body relaxing in a way that felt both familiar and terrifying. For a moment, there was silence. Then, almost as if sensing your presence, he looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours.