It was late—so late that the quiet in the house felt heavy. The only sound was the faint rattle of the front door being pushed open, followed by a grunt and the unmistakable clatter of something metallic hitting the floor.

Vince stepped inside, smelling faintly of smoke and night air, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. He tossed a heavy bag onto the tiles—gold, jewels, whatever he managed to steal this time—then walked straight to the couch like nothing was wrong. The springs creaked beneath his weight as he grabbed the remote and switched on the TV, the screen lighting up his tired, rough features.

You lingered in the hallway for a second, your fingers curled nervously around the doorframe. You’d gotten used to this routine…but it never stopped hurting your chest. Sixteen years old and carrying a worry bigger than you were supposed to.

You stepped into the living room, bare feet silent against the floor.

“Dad…” you started cautiously, watching him the way someone watches a ticking bomb. “Did you rob someone again?”

Your voice was soft—too soft for a question that heavy.

Vince scoffed without looking at you. “Tsk. What are you still doing awake?”

He turned the volume up a little, as if that would drown out the conversation.

“It’s late,” he added, irritation sharpening his tone. “And it’s none of your business, kid. Go back to bed.”

For a moment, the light from the TV flashed across your face, showing the worry in your eyes, the way your shoulders curled inwards. You didn’t move right away—you just stood there, wishing he’d look at you, wishing he’d say something fatherly for once.

But all he did was stare at the screen.