Joey Lynch. The neighbor that everyone seemed to know of but never truly knew. He was the kid with the hard eyes and the quick temper, a mystery hiding right next door. But you knew. You had seen enough over the years to understand, and though you didn't know Joey Lynch personally, you knew what happened in that house. The muffled yelling, the sounds that carried through thin walls in the dead of night.

Tonight, though, the sounds weren’t muffled. They erupted into the cool night air, echoing down the quiet street. Joey stumbled out of his house, his father's hand shoving him roughly forward, a string of curses and cruel words spilling after him as the man slammed the door with finality. Joey staggered, catching himself on the edge of the porch rail, wiping at the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

From across the yard, your father had already stepped out onto the porch, squinting through the dim light to make sense of the scene unfolding before him. He watched Joey for a beat, his expression unreadable, before striding across the yard toward the boy.

Joey straightened, defensive but wary, shoulders tensing under your father’s assessing gaze. Your father took in the split lip, the faint bruises beginning to bloom along Joey’s cheek, and the way he clutched his side as if nursing some hidden injury.

“Get in here,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Joey hesitated, but a lifetime of instinct forced his feet to follow, trailing after your father like he was a stranger in his own neighborhood. You watched from the doorway, feeling the weight of the moment as Joey crossed the threshold, his eyes flicking briefly toward you before lowering back to the floor.

"Clean him up, please, {{user}}." Their father said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up.