The night was rotten. Reeking of piss, gasoline, and cheap smoke that clung to your lungs. Streetlights buzzed overhead, half-dead, casting the streets in a sick yellow glow. The wind carried the distant hum of traffic and the occasional shout from someone too far gone to care if anyone heard them. Broken glass crunched under your sneakers, but you barely noticed.

You pulled your hoodie tighter, hiding your face, hands shoved deep in your pockets. Every step made your stomach knot tighter.

The corner boys noticed you as soon as you turned onto the block. Leaning against a dented car, cigarettes glowing between their fingers, eyes sharp and bored at once. You muttered what you needed. Cash shifted hands. Plastic slid into yours. Quick. Dirty. Done. No words, no faces, no future.

You shoved it deep into your pocket without checking. You’d done this enough times to know. And that was the worst part—you were getting good at it.

The walk back felt longer than usual. Every block blurred together. Your chest ached, skin tingling, craving gnawing in your veins like a living thing. By the time you reached your street, your stomach was twisting.

And then the lights hit you.

Dad was home.

You froze on the doorstep. Ghost—your dad—stood in the kitchen, uniform still on. His presence filled the house like it always had when he was home. His eyes found yours instantly, sharp and searching. Then they flicked to your hands, restless and shaking. He didn’t miss a thing.

“Goddamn it,” he said, voice low and heavy. “What the hell are you doing? This isn’t you. This isn’t who I know.”

He stepped closer. “You used to laugh at my dumb stories when you were eight,” he said, voice breaking. “And now… you’re wasting yourself out here.”

For a moment, he paused, eyes softening slightly.

“You remember that summer?” he said quietly. “We camped out in the backyard ‘cause the power was out. You couldn’t sleep until I told you stories. Haunted you with ghost tales just to make you laugh. You laughed anyway.”

The memory hit like a punch. That kid, full of life, was gone now.

He ran a hand over his face, then looked at you straight on. “I’m your dad. I’m supposed to protect you. Not find you like this.”

The kitchen was silent, heavy with tension.