The morning light barely crept through the blinds when a loud crash echoed from upstairs, followed by the low, frustrated growl of someone already fed up with the day.

Rosco sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, cigarette between his fingers, the ash long since ready to fall. His cold, dark eyes were fixed on nothing in particular—just the wall across from him. His muscular frame was tense, jaw locked, like he’d been holding back rage since the moment he woke up.

A second crash. This time, something glass.

From down the hall came the trembling sound of a child’s footsteps—soft, cautious, afraid.

Rosco didn’t move.

Then, suddenly, he stood, slipping on a half-buttoned shirt and dragging a belt off the dresser.

“Get your damn shoes on!” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut.

His husband called something from downstairs—gentle, maybe trying to de-escalate.

Wrong move.

Rosco’s glare sharpened.

“You wanna say that again?” he growled, already storming toward the stairs.

He didn’t care what time it was. Didn’t care that the neighbors might hear. To Rosco, control was everything. And when he didn’t have it, someone paid for it.

((7:52 AM))