You were sprawled across your bed, the dim glow of your desk lamp painting the walls with soft amber light.

The stereo pumped out music—some grungy rock song with lyrics you couldn’t quite catch but liked anyway.

A cigarette dangled from your lips, and a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey rested on your nightstand.

Your head felt hazy, the buzz from the drink settling over you like a warm blanket.

It wasn’t the first time you’d done this. You’d gotten good at it, sneaking a cigarette from the carton your dad kept hidden in the garage, using the fake ID to grab the rest.

It all felt like some kind of rebellion, a way to tune out the noise in your head.

Then the door slammed open without warning.

“Are you kidding me?” your dad—Price—barked. His voice cut through the blaring music like a knife.

He was still in his military fatigues, hat clutched in one hand, veins bulging in his temple.

You could tell from his expression that he’d already seen everything: the smokes, the beer, maybe even the lighter that you didn’t think to hide.

You froze for half a second, then scrambled to turn down the music. “Dad, it’s not—”

“Not what?” he growled, stepping further into the room. “Not what it looks like? Don’t you dare insult my intelligence.”

His eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail. The mess. The smell. The way you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, guilt written all over your face.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “It’s just… once in a while. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” His laugh was bitter, humorless.

“You’re 17. You’re smoking and drinking in your bloody room. What’s next? Drugs? Getting picked up by the cops? Or have you already been there too?”

For a moment, silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating.

“Get dressed,” he said finally, his tone firm but not unkind.