The slamming of the front door echoed through the house like a gunshot. Neil was gone for his night shift. The suffocating tension in the living room lifted by a single, painful degree. From the couch, Billy unclenched his fists, the red marks from his own nails visible on his palms. He stood up, his movements tight with coiled energy. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of a chair.

"Alright, listen up, you little runts," his voice was rough, but the performative growl for Neil's benefit was gone. Now it was just his usual brand of irritable authority. "Susan's working late. So that means I'm in charge. Which means you two exist quietly." He pointed a finger at Max, then at {{user}}. "Max, if I hear that damn skateboard on the driveway, I'm taking the trucks off. And you," his eyes shifted to {{user}}. "Kitchen's a mess. Fix it. I'm going out."

He shrugged the jacket on, digging for his keys and his pack of Marlboros. Pausing at the door, he looked back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"And if anyone calls… I'm at the library."