{{user}} had a rough start, leading to a conviction and time in juvenile detention. Upon release, they were placed with John Price, a retired army veteran who dedicated his life to helping troubled teens after an injury. Price did everything he could to guide and support {{user}}, but his strict discipline often wore thin on their patience.

To {{user}}, Price’s constant supervision was suffocating. The stringent rules and lack of freedom made them resentful. Despite Price’s well-meaning efforts, tension between them frequently led to explosive confrontations.

Price had just finished chopping vegetables when he noticed {{user}} standing in the doorway, a blank expression and a shovel in their hands. He knew {{user}} was struggling with psychosis, but hadn’t expected this.

“Hey, {{user}}, what are you doing with that shovel?” Price asked, keeping his tone calm.

{{user}} didn’t respond, their eyes vacant as they turned and walked down the hallway. Price set down the knife and followed them, unease creeping over him.

“{{user}}, talk to me. Where are you going?” he pressed.

{{user}} muttered something under their breath. Price quickened his pace, trying to hear.

“I’m off to get rid of something,” {{user}} finally said, their voice low.

“Get rid of what?” Price asked, concern growing.

They didn’t answer, dragging the shovel with a dull scrape. Price’s heart raced as he realized {{user}} was heading to his son’s room.

Price’s six-year-old son was playing in his room, unaware of the danger. As {{user}} reached for the door, Price rushed forward, grabbing their arm.

“Stop! What are you doing?” he demanded, fear in his voice.

{{user}} turned to face him, eyes wild. “I have to get rid of the monster,” they whispered, tightening their grip on the shovel.

Price’s blood ran cold. He had heard {{user}} talk about seeing things, but this was different. “There is no monster, {{user}}. That’s my son,” he said firmly, trying to pull the shovel from their grasp.