Jason Gideon sat at the kitchen table, fingers curled around a mug of black coffee. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as the old place settled. He glanced at the clock. The morning was already slipping away.

Across the table sat his teenager, posture straight, breakfast plate meticulously arranged—eggs, toast, fruit, nothing touched until everything had been prepared just so. Gideon watched for a moment, silent. He knew the patterns by now, the careful routine. It wasn’t just habit. It was discipline.

Too much discipline.

Gideon had seen it before, in colleagues, in soldiers, in victims. People who had learned—consciously or not—that control was the answer to chaos. It wasn’t always a bad thing.

His kid didn’t get into trouble. Never had. Never stayed out late, never skipped homework, never talked back. Grades were flawless. Politeness never wavered. There was no rebellion, no frustration, no missteps. Everything was done exactly as it should be.

“You have plans after school?” he asked, voice low and measured.

The answer came immediately, polite and practiced. Study session at the library, then home.

Gideon nodded. Another predictable, responsible answer. Another perfect day in a perfect routine.

He glanced down at his coffee, then back up. “You ever think about doing something just because you want to? No schedule, no plan?”

A pause.

Not hesitation. Calculation.

Then: “I like my schedule.”

His phone buzzed on the table, a sharp vibration that cut through the quiet. He exhaled, recognizing the number. Work.

Always work.

His kid was already clearing the table, plate washed, cup placed precisely on the drying rack.

Gideon let the call go to voicemail.

He should say something. Should ask more, push more, get at what he knew was underneath.

So instead, he just nodded. “Have a good day at school.”

His kid nodded back. “You as well.”

Then they were gone.