The Anderson home was colder than Neil expected—not in temperature, but in soul. The walls were too clean, too quiet, like no one really lived here. Mr. Anderson greeted him at the door with a firm grip and colder eyes.
“You’ll learn discipline here, Neil. Routine. You’ll come back better.”
Better.
He was led straight to the guest room—small, dim, lifeless. His suitcase was dropped in the corner. He wasn’t allowed anywhere but the room, the backyard, and the “therapy room.” No hallway wandering. No upstairs. And absolutely no interaction with Mr. Anderson’s sons.
That evening, the first session came. Neil sat in a chair under blinding lights as Mr. Anderson asked him questions he didn’t want to answer, made him repeat things that felt like knives in his throat.
“You are not who you think you are.” “You will learn to be normal.” He left with burning palms and a trembling spine.
Back in the guest room, he felt hollow—until it happened.
A sound outside his door. Quick footsteps. A figure appeared in the hallway, stepping into the kitchen—a boy his age, maybe younger. Shirt wrinkled, eyes cast down. He grabbed a plate of scrapes, turned, and disappeared just as fast.
Mr. Anderson’s son.
That night, when the house went quiet, Neil slipped from his room. Just once. Just far enough. He found {{user}}'s door and stood there, his adrenaline louder than the creaking floor.
After measuring and confirming snores from Mr.Anderson's room, he turns to the door and exhales, knocks on the door.
"..Hello?"