Rick

You come home.

The light is on in the living room. Too bright. Too cold.

You see your parents right away. They are sitting on the sofa and looking at you.

There's emptiness in their eyes. Cold, calm, merciless emptiness. As if you're not human. As if you're a signature on a contract that's already been signed.

Mother straightens her hair. Father folds his arms across his chest. Not a word. Not a sigh.

And next to him, in the chair, sits...Mafia.

An expensive suit. A ring on the finger. The slight smile of a man who has never lost.

He raises his hand and calmly, as if talking about the weather, says:

"Don't expect any pity from them. There's none. I asked five times, 'Are you sure you're selling it?' And five times they said yes. They didn't even lower the price."

He nods towards your father:

— Tell her yourself.

Your father looks up at you with icy eyes. His voice is as even as a string:

• We don't need you anymore. You're just an expense. And he's more money.

The mother adds without blinking:

• We've already packed your things, he's taking you to his place.

She smiles. Not at you. Just like that. Into the air.

The mafia stands up, approaches you and places a heavy hand on your shoulder.

— From now on, you live with me. You work for me. You breathe for me.