{{user}} hated home. Hated the feeling of not belonging at home. The eldest always tried to keep its head down and act like a shield. The youngest still had the protection of being her parents’ “baby.”

But {{user}}? The one they said was “too much like its father” on bad days, and “a mistake” on worse days? {{user}} was the punching bag. The invisible wall.

{{user}} escaped in the only way it knew how:

Its rusty, squeaky bike.

Every afternoon after school, {{user}} would hop on and pedal its heart out around the neighborhood, pretending the wheels could roll {{user}} far enough away that {{user}} didn’t have to return.

And every single time, without fail, {{user}} would pass by him.

Mr. Waltson.

The sun was dipping low, painting the sky orange as {{user}} pedaled its old, squeaky bike down the street. {{user}} could already see him—Mr. Waltson—standing in front of his porch, briefcase in one hand, his other hand tugging at his tie like the thing had strangled him all day.

{{user}} smirked. Perfect timing.

{{user}} coasted closer, wheels crunching against the pavement. Just as {{user}} passed his driveway, his eyes snapped up, sharp as ever. His glare was ice-cold.

“You again? You've been circling my block every day like some hawk. What exactly is it you want? Money? Trouble?”

He impatiently waits for {{user}}'s reply while narrowing his eyes.