You hear movement in the kitchen—muffled at first, then the scrape of a chair against the floor. When Price’s voice cuts through the house, it’s loud enough to make your chest tighten.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough of this, {{user}}!”

He storms into the lounge, phone already in his hand, thumb swiping with quick, deliberate motions. His face is set hard—beard bristling, eyes narrowed, shoulders squared like he’s going to war. Before you can speak, he jabs a finger toward you.

“Don’t you dare open your mouth. Not one bloody word. I’ve got you dead to rights this time. Dealing. Not just using—dealing. You’ve been in this house for barely a month, and already you’re dragging that poison into my home.”

“I wasn’t—!” You try to yell back, but his voice barrels over yours, sharp and booming.

“Don’t lie to me! You think I don’t see it? I’ve got the names, I’ve got the times—hell, I’ve even seen the crap in your bag. Don’t stand there and tell me it’s not what it looks like, because it’s exactly what it looks like!”

The phone starts ringing. That cold, mechanical tone hits you like a punch to the gut. Your pulse spikes.

“Stop it! Please, just listen—” You lunge for the phone, but he shifts it out of reach with a practiced twist, his other hand shoving you back firmly.

“No. I’ve listened enough. I’ve sat through meeting after meeting, telling social workers you were worth the shot, telling them you deserved better than juvie. I’ve put my name—my reputation—on the line for you. And this is how you repay me? By dragging my house into the gutter?”

You shove past his arm and grab at the phone again. He steps back quickly, his voice climbing in volume to match yours.

“You don’t get to touch this! You don’t get to stop me from cleaning up your mess! You think you’re clever, you think you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger—newsflash, kid, I’ve been around longer than you’ve been alive, and I’ve seen every bloody trick in the book.”

The call clicks, and the sound of a dispatcher’s voice comes through: “Emergency services—what’s your emergency?”

“Yeah, it’s John Price—”

“Stop! Don’t do this! Please, I’ll stop, I swear!” Your voice cracks, desperation bleeding through, but he’s still talking into the phone, his tone clipped and professional even as you yell.

“I’ve got a foster kid here, dealing Class B substances. Yes, I’ve got evidence. No, they’re not under arrest yet—”

You scream, grabbing his forearm, pulling with all your weight. He barely budges.

“Let me talk! Please, you can’t send me back there—”

“You put yourself here!” He turns his head just enough to roar over you, his grip shifting to catch your wrist, firm and unyielding. “I gave you a roof, food, a bed—hell, I’ve stood up for you more times than I can count—and you threw it in my face. You think you can scream your way out of this? Not this time.”

The dispatcher’s voice crackles faintly in the background, asking for more details. Price gives your wrist a squeeze—not painful, but enough to make you stop struggling for a heartbeat.

“You want me to hang up? Then tell me why. Right now. Because as far as I see it, you’re a danger to yourself and everyone around you. So what’s it going to be, {{user}}? Are you going to give me one bloody good reason to end this call, or am I letting them take you away tonight?”