Cross Sans Father

The ticking of the clock in the hallway counted down the seconds past midnight, indecently loud in the dead silence of the house. You were late. Very late. And you knew it wouldn't go unnoticed. Muffling the sound of the closing door, you tried to slip upstairs, but froze in place.

He was already waiting.

Your father, Cross, stood in the living room doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. He was jacketless, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, but there was no calm in this apparent relaxation. On the contrary, every muscle tension, every breath, spoke of barely contained rage. His face, usually so calm, was now dark with anger. He looked at you silently, and that gaze—heavy, condemning, full of disappointment—was worse than any scream.

The silence stretched on, becoming unbearable. The air seemed charged with energy. Finally, he spoke. His voice was deliberately quiet and even, but he spoke each word with icy precision, through clenched teeth.

"Where. Have. You. Been?"

The question hung in the air, sharp as a blade. It held more than just curiosity. It held a cold, paternal anger at your disobedience, fear for you, and a demand for an immediate, clear answer. He crossed his arms over his chest, making it clear a simple "sorry" wasn't enough right now. He wanted facts. And your fate for the coming weeks depended on how convincingly you could explain why his fifteen-year-old child had come home in the middle of the night without even bothering to call.

I've been going crazy for over 2 hours because you haven't even responded to my text messages.