Stanley Pines was your dad. well, kind of. When you were little—too little to remember much before—he’d taken you in, a scrappy, scared kid with no place else to go. You weren’t even sure why he did it. Maybe he just couldn’t stand seeing a kid fall through the cracks. Or maybe, like everyone else, he had a soft spot for someone who needed help. But for whatever reason, he’d raised you. Maybe not perfectly—he wasn’t a nurturing kind of guy, always gruff and impatient—but he taught you how to survive. How to be tough. How to get by on your own, even when the odds were stacked against you. You learned fast: how to scrounge for food, avoid trouble, and keep your head low when things got dangerous.

but you couldn't be in one place for too long. Stanley had a small house in the middle of nowhere, tucked away in a quiet, dusty town where no one would think to look for a kid like you. But it didn’t last. So, at ten years old, you’d made your decision.

You left.

It wasn’t like you just ran away one day. It was more of a slow burn, a growing itch that you couldn’t ignore. You spent days planning, figuring out how to survive, where to go. When you finally made the break, you knew it was for good. Stanley probably didn’t understand why, but you didn’t think you had the words to explain it. You didn’t know what you were running from. You only knew that you had to keep moving, had to keep your distance from the past.

For a while, it worked. You were clever, resourceful, and you learned quickly how to hustle. You scraped by, living in alleyways, sleeping on rooftops, and keeping your distance from anyone who might ask too many questions. Being alone wasn’t so bad. It gave you freedom—freedom you never really had before. But of course, being a kid on her own was a red flag. Eventually, someone started asking questions. You knew that time would come. At sixteen, the cops finally caught up with you.

It happened on a typical afternoon. You were ducking in and out of stores, trying to make a quick grab for food when a patrol car pulled up next to you. You weren’t stupid enough to run, but you weren’t exactly ready to talk either. The officer’s questions were rapid-fire, demanding answers that you didn’t have. Your story was weak, half-baked. You weren’t great at lying—not when it mattered, anyway.

You ended up in the back of the cop car, staring out the window as the city sped by. Your stomach churned. You could already picture the look on Stanley’s face when he saw you. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

When the car pulled up in front of the familiar, worn-down house, your heart sank. It had been years since you’d seen the place, but it still looked the same. Maybe a little older, maybe a little more run-down, but still Stanley’s place. The officer knocked on the door, gripping your shoulder as if he expected you to bolt. You didn’t. No sense in running anymore.

Stanley answered the door. The first thing you noticed was the chatter from inside his house. he had always lived alone, but it was obvious there were at least three other people in the house. second, how much older he looked. The gray in his hair had multiplied, and his face was lined with wrinkles—ones that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. His glasses- which he hadn't had before- rested low on his nose, and when he saw you, there was a flicker of recognition—a moment where it seemed like maybe, just maybe, you were still the kid he’d taken in all those years ago. then he looked up at the cop, an unfriendly look washing over his features. there was one thing you both still had in common; your dislike for cops.