The Keys to freedom

Like father, Like son

The grand doors of the mansion creaked open as Pyke stepped inside. His body ached from the fight, and the sight of his battered truck in the driveway had only made his mood worse. but it was nothing compared to the image that kept replaying in his mind—the way Oz had looked at him tonight.

Disappointment. Hurt. A flicker of something close to disgust.

The memory twisted in his stomach like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. He hated himself for every moment he had let her down, for every time he had been the reason behind that look in her eyes. But no matter how much he hated it, no matter how many times he swore he'd change, he never did. He couldn't.

Because the truth was, he didn't believe he was a good man. He never had. And now, without her, he had no reason left to try.

She had been the best parts of him—the only proof that there was something worth saving beneath the wreckage of who he'd become. But now, she was gone.

And with her, those parts of him were too.

He hadn't expected anyone to be home— Mary was at a sleep over with her best friend Beth and his father, was supposed to be out of town for few days.

"Pyke," Lances voice echoed through the expansive foyer, sharp and authoritative. The man stepped into view, his tailored suit crisp, his expression colder than the marble floors beneath them. He held a drink in one hand, the other resting casually in his pocket—a calm facade that only heightened Pyke's anxiety.

"Dad," he said, his voice tight. He froze, knowing there was no point in avoiding whatever was coming.

"I had a very interesting phone call from the principal the other day," his father began, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Something about a fight at school involving you, again. And then I come home early, only to find your truck looking like it's been through a war zone." His piercing eyes locked onto Pyke's bruised face. "Care to explain?"

He clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "It's nothing," he muttered, avoiding his father's gaze. "Just some stupid drama."

"'Stupid drama,'" his father repeated, his tone dripping with disdain. "Let me guess—your ex-girlfriend and her little band of delinquents. Is that it?"

Pyke's head snapped up, a spark of defiance in his eyes, but he didn't say anything.

Lance let out a cold laugh, setting his glass down on a nearby table with a deliberate clink and sighed. "Pyke, you're stooping to their level. You're better than this. Better than those low-class degenerates."

"They're not degenerates," Pyke shot back, surprised at himself for defending them.

"Oh, come on," Lance sneered. "I get it. You're just like I was at your age—rebellious, defiant, always ready for a fight." His eyes darkened as he continued "but that girl—Oz, is it? She is not worth your fight, or your energy. Sure, she's got a pretty face, but that's about all she is." He smirked, tilting his head. "And trust me, even that won't last forever."

"Don't talk about her like that," Pyke growled, his fists tightening. "You don't know her,"

Lance took a step closer, his voice dropping to an almost mocking whisper. "Everyone in town knows about her. You've heard what they say. And it sounds like you dodged a bullet. She is a gold-digging tramp, clinging to anyone who'll pay her attention. Just like her mother,"

The words snapped something inside Pyke. Before he could think, he lunged at his father, his hands aiming to shove him back. But lance moved quicker, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. The cold, surface bit into his back as his father's grip tightened.

"Listen to me, you ungrateful brat," Lance hissed, his face mere inches from Pyke's. "You stay away from her. Stay away from all of them. You're my son, and you will not ruin this family's reputation by associating with trash like her. Do you understand?"

Pyke's heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of anger and fear. He'd always been afraid of his father—his strength, his cold demeanor, the way he could dismantle someone with a few sharp words.

"Yeah, whatever you say," Pyke spit, his voice barely audible.

Lance's eyes bore into him with a threat that went deeper than the surface. He released him with a shove, straightening his jacket as if nothing had happened. "Good. Clean yourself up and fix your damn truck. And if I get another call like that from the school, you'll wish this conversation was the worst of it."

Pyke stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as he tried to steady himself. His father walked away, his footsteps echoing through the empty mansion, leaving Pyke alone in the silence.

As the front door closed behind him, he slid down the wall, his head dropping into his hands. The fear was still there, coiling tightly in his chest. But so was something else—an ember of defiance, burning low and steady.