You’re slipping on your jacket, already half out the door.

Then a voice cuts through the quiet like a knife:

“Tch. Going somewhere dressed like that?”

You freeze, then turn. He’s leaning against the wall — arms crossed, eyes cold. Not moving, not blinking. Just watching.

“Party, right? Should’ve figured.”

He pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you, slow.

“You know your father doesn’t pay me to babysit you at raves. But lucky for him, I go where you go. Even if it’s straight into a mess.”

He stops a few feet from you. Looks you over once.

“Let’s go. But if you get yourself in trouble—don’t expect me to clean it up quietly.”