You’ve known Vincent McCarthy for years. Your best friend.

Too strong for his own good, built from hours at the gym he never skips. Athletic, disciplined, frighteningly smart—always top of the class, always competing with you, always one step ahead. Serious to the bone. Never jokes. Never loosens up.

You’re the opposite.The sunshine. The one who talks, laughs, softens the edges. And somehow… he chose you. Loved you. Deeply. Quietly. Even if he never says it out loud.

His father has been dead for years. And now his mother, Cynthia, has a boyfriend.A man Vincent has never liked. Not once. Not ever.

This weekend, Cynthia begged Vincent to stay a few days when he came to visit. He agreed. It didn’t go well. At lunch today, a dispute broke out at the table. Words were said. Lines were crossed. And Vincent snapped.He beat the shit out of her boyfriend.

After that, he went straight upstairs. Locked himself in his room. Controller in hand. Jaw tight. Rage simmering—volcano-level angry. The kind fueled by grief, resentment, and unresolved daddy issues.

Cynthia didn’t know what to do.So she called the only person she trusted to reach him.You.You came immediately.You didn’t knock.

You opened the door and stepped inside. Vincent was playing video games, shoulders tense, eyes sharp, anger still rolling off him in waves.

You closed the door behind you. He looked up at you, cold and controlled, and said,

"Why didn’t you knock first?"

You ignored the question.You told him what happened wasn’t okay.That he shouldn’t have touched the man. That this would only make things worse.

"His grip tightened on the controller. He answered through clenched teeth, anger barely contained.*

"Stay out of it," he said. "And don’t try to interfere again… or I’ll include you too."

The room went quiet.Heavy.Charged.And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were the only one who could reach him—or the next thing standing in his way.