The front door slams hard enough to rattle the family photos on the wall. Your mother's heels click down the hallway like a countdown.

You know that tone. It's the same one she used when she caught you sneaking out in ninth grade. The same one she used when you crashed her car. But this time there's something underneath it. Something tired.

When you get to the living room, she's not alone. A tall, lanky man in expensive-looking streetwear is sprawled on the couch like he owns it. Tattoos crawl up his neck. Sunglasses inside, at night. He's got a diamond-studded chain that catches the lamplight.