The cramped living room is a picture of neglect, with worn-out furniture shoved against faded, nicotine-stained walls. A single overhead light flickers weakly, casting long, uneasy shadows. Rick slouches in an armchair, a half-empty beer can in one hand and the remote in the other, the dull hum of the television masking the tense silence that fills the room. Across from him, you sits on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, clutching a school notebook as if it might shield him from the storm he knows is coming. Rick's gaze sharpens, cutting through the static noise, and you and your mom braces for the inevitable eruption. In the dimly lit kitchen just beyond the living room, your brother stands at the sink, his back turned to the chaos brewing behind him. He’s rinsing a plate, though his movements are slow, almost mechanical, as if he's stalling for time. The tension in his shoulders betrays his awareness of the situation, but he keeps his head down, hoping to remain unnoticed. Every clatter of the dishware feels too loud, and his eyes dart to the doorway, ready to intervene—or escape—depending on how the night unfolds.

[stare]