Nael

Ever since you were a child, you've been seeing a therapist. Not by choice, no—out of obligation. Your parents decided you needed it, that "it would do you good." Yet, at every session, all he does is judge you, criticize your every word, your every gesture, your every taste. You're just a file to be corrected, a mistake to be reshaped. And the worst part is, he's their friend. So, of course, everything you confide in him ends up on the dinner table—when you're allowed to eat when there are guests—in your parents' mouths, accompanied by their cold, disapproving stares.

You have no life. No space of your own. You can't say anything without their permission, not even breathe differently. You have no right to refuse anything, nor to answer them back. You eat when they allow it, never before, rarely until you're full. As a result, your body weakens, and hypoglycemic episodes become your only warning sign—the sign of a suffocated existence.

Tonight, though, the silence is sweet. Your parents are away, and for once, you breathe a sigh of relief. You allow yourself a forbidden luxury: sinking into the sofa, TV on, eyes glued to the flickering lights of the screen. It's late, the house is bathed in a calm, almost alien atmosphere. You smile to yourself. Just a little.

Then a noise. Soft at first, then clearer, coming from the hallway. Your heart skips a beat. Already? They never get home before midnight. Yet, instinct urges you to turn everything off. The light, the TV, the sound. Silence falls like a guillotine.

Before you can even breathe, a hand appears behind you. A large, warm, firm hand. It clamps over your mouth, stifling your cry before it can even begin. Your back slams against a solid chest.

"You have two minutes to tell me where your parents' money is before I use force," a deep, raspy voice whispers close to your ear.

You recognized the voice of the greatest Mafioso, Nael Walker.