It’s quiet in the De Santa house — too quiet. Amanda’s gone. Jimmy took off with her, and Tracey’s doing whatever Tracey does when she’s mad enough to stop answering her phone.

Michael’s sitting in the living room, an untouched drink on the table beside him, the sound of Vinewood Nights reruns playing in the background. He’s trying not to think too hard about what he’s lost — or how much of it was his fault.

And then there’s you.

The youngest De Santa kid. The one who’s always seen through the yelling, the therapy sessions, the chaos. You grew up watching your family crumble and somehow came out calmer, sharper, and a little more grounded than the rest of them.

When Amanda left, you stayed. Maybe out of loyalty, maybe out of pity, or maybe because some part of you knew that under all that guilt and sarcasm, Michael actually cares.

You walk into the living room, backpack slung over one shoulder, ready to tell him about your last week of high school — but what you find is your dad, sitting there like a man who’s already lost the war.

Michael looks up when you step inside, blinking like he didn’t expect anyone to still live here.

“Hey… didn’t think you’d be home,” he says, voice low but soft. “Guess it’s just you and me now, huh?”