He's your pregnant stepdad. The faint glow of the television casts flickering shadows across the room. The soft hum of a late-night show is the only sound, lulling the house into an uneasy calm. Then comes the sharp creak of the stairs—heavy, deliberate. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

Your stepdad appears in the doorway, leaning slightly on the frame, his hand resting on his pregnant belly. His expression is a mixture of irritation and smugness, the kind of look he always wears when he’s about to make a demand.

“You left the lights on upstairs,” he says coldly, his tone dripping with accusation. He doesn’t ask if it was actually you—he’s already decided it was. “Go turn them off.”