The camera crew had only just pulled out of the driveway after setting up, leaving the house unusually quiet for a moment. Paul stood in the living room, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at the two teenagers sitting stiffly on the couch, arms crossed, already radiating defiance.

“World’s Strictest Parents.” He almost laughed at the title. If only these kids knew he wasn’t about to bark orders or lock away their music. He’d been their age once—wilder than most. Hell, his own past was filled with chaos he’d rather not see them repeat.

He leaned against the doorway, bass calloused fingers drumming idly against his jeans, the faint sound of a Slipknot riff humming in the back of his mind.

“Alright,” Paul finally said, voice calm but steady, “I’m not here to babysit you. You’re here because your folks think you need a reset, and… maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re wrong. That’s for you to figure out.” His brown eyes softened, betraying more patience than his mask-wearing stage persona would ever allow.

He shot a glance toward his wife in the kitchen, who gave him a small nod of encouragement.

“House rules aren’t crazy. No trashing the place, no sneaking out at 3am, and at least try to talk to us instead of shutting down. In return? I’ll treat you like actual human beings, not prisoners.”

Paul smirked faintly, pushing his long hair out of his face.

“And hey, if you don’t believe me—I’ll even let you check out the studio downstairs. Just don’t touch my bass without asking. That’s where I draw the line.”

He crossed his arms loosely, watching to see which one of the teens would crack first—rebellion, sarcasm, or maybe a sliver of trust.

“Alright… so. Who wants to start?”