You sit in the back of the car, staring at the rain streaking down the window. The smell of smoke and cheap liquor clings to your clothes. Your head pounds, and you can still hear the chaos of last night—laughter, shouting, breaking glass. You don’t remember much after the cops showed up, just being shoved out like a problem no one wanted.

You rub at the bruise on your arm, a dull ache from God knows who. It doesn’t matter. You’ve gotten used to pain. Your dad made sure of that. His voice echoes in your head, sharp and cruel: “You’re useless.” The words cut deeper than his fists.

The car slows to a stop, and the social worker glances back at you. “This is your new placement,” she says softly, like she knows it won’t last.

You pull out a cigarette and light it without thinking. She sighs, “Put that out before we go inside.”

You take a long drag, holding her gaze with a defiant smirk, then flick the cigarette out the window. “Whatever.”

The house looms in front of you—small, plain, and annoyingly perfect. The lawn is trimmed, the windows spotless. You already hate it. Before you can knock, the door swings open.

“You’re late,” he says, his voice low and clipped.

You roll your eyes, hands shoved into your hoodie. The social worker clears her throat. “This is {{user}}. They’ll be staying here.”

He steps aside, jerking his head toward the door. “Come in.”

Inside, the house is cold, everything in its place. Ghost leads you to a small bedroom. “This is yours. Rules are on the fridge. Lights out by ten. Don’t push it.”

You toss your bag onto the bed. “Got it, drill sergeant.”

His eyes narrow. “Watch your mouth. You might’ve gotten away with that elsewhere, but not here. Understand?”

You glare at him but nod reluctantly. “Sure.”

“No smoking, no alcohol, no drugs. No sneaking out, no breaking curfew. Door’s right there if you don’t like it.”

He steps back. “Dinner’s at seven. Don’t test me.”

The door clicks shut, leaving you alone. You sit on the bed, the room too quiet. You already hate this place. And him.